The Clock Is Ticking
by TheBrokerAndThePathologist
Summary: Franky's arrest has thrown both her and Bridget into a situation they hadn't pictured themselves in. Their beautifully-constructed, romantic, shared life together has abruptly been torn apart by things out of their control. Dealing and coping is difficult, and they unintentionally and intentionally push and pull on each other in the process.
1. 1: Lost Love (Open Hands)

**Authors' Note:**

The title of this work has been borrowed from a dance, which can be found at watch?v=2vLkkF8Vucc.

This chapter was inspired by a dance called "Lost Love". You can find it here: watch?v=Za6bYHKxYVY. Every chapter of this work will be named after a dance.

This work is co-written by ADancerWrites and SugarsweetRomantic. ADancerWrites writes Franky and the inmates, and SugarsweetRomantic writes Bridget and the prison staff - generally speaking.

-x-

It was easy. It had been way too easy. Francesca Doyle's shoulders shook as tears that she never meant to cry were falling from her eyes. She had fought it and she had fought it successfully for days now, but experience taught her that time simply meant nothing in a place like Wentworth Prison. She let herself drop down onto her bed and heaved as she let herself cry into what could hopefully be considered an emotional relief. If anyone passed by her cell, she could always tell them that she feared for her charges. Wait! No, reverse that. Franky Doyle _never_ feared anything. Not that they would know of, anyway...

Franky quickly wiped the tears away with her fingers before extending her arms out in front of her to assess the damage. Her lower arms were covered in nail marks. She had said 'no'! She turned her arms around, but aside from a sharp pain as she turned her left arm, there was nothing much to see. She had said 'no'! Franky dropped her arms again and reached her hands up to her face as she silently wept for no one to see. She had said 'no'! Her heart was still pounding in her ears from the sudden onset of adrenaline when Gidge addressed her. _Congratulations, baby_. She had said 'no' and was now in her right mind to file assault and attempted rape charges against her. Sadly or stupidly – Franky could not really decide which of them was more applicable – she probably would not.

Franky did not drop her hands from her face until she felt something slide down from her right wrist down to her elbow. Turning her wrist in front of her face, she noticed a single trail of blood, with a very heavy and thick dark red drop at the bottom. Franky moistened the thumb of her left hand by pushing it against her tongue for a quick second and then rubbing it against her wrist so that the red blood made way for the white skin underneath. Though the pain in her left arm made her wince in pain, Franky decided to ignore it. Gidge pushed her away with such an extreme force of strength to make her stop... The skin on her wrist was most definitely torn. An odd and uneven line showed an undeep slice of approximately five centimeters; maybe a bracelet or watch had gotten stuck on her skin. Good. She hoped it would leave a scar.

Clutching her left arm, she sat back against the wall and rested her head against the pinboard. The encounter lasted barely a minute and if this is how banged up this had left her, she could only imagine the damage that she had caused to Gidge. She was only the aggressor. Research and perhaps a healthy dose of personal experience taught her that the victim was left with the biggest wounds. Things that do not mean a thing to the sender can be life changing to its receiver and Franky was all too aware of that fact.

"What am I turning into?!" she spoke upon deaf ears as tears started welling up again.

-x-

Bridget's chest heaved with unshed sobs threatening to come out. She had said 'stay away'! Not here, not now Westfall. You're at work. You're exposed. You can't break down crying right now, no matter how much you want to. The cool breeze of the aircon made her look down at her abdomen. Shit, her blouse had been completely destroyed just now. She gripped the zipper with trembling hands and pulled it up, covering her bare skin. She had said 'stay away'! She was lucky the hallway was currently abandoned; what if someone had seen her? The mere thought made a new rush of panic rush through her veins. Closing her eyes, she leant her head against the wall.

'Breathe, Bridget,' the still-rational part of her brain told her, 'what you're feeling is just your body's fight-or-flight-response. It's adrenalin. Just a chemical floating through your blood, attaching to neurotransmitter receptors. You're fine.' She took a deep, shaky breath and slowly exhaled. Opening her eyes again, she walked off into the direction of her office. She needed to think. She needed to process what had just happened. She just couldn't do that here. She had said 'stay away'!

-x-

The moment Bridget heard the click of the door of her office falling into its lock, she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Keep it together just a little longer. Close the blinds first. Don't let anyone see you. Nearly on auto-pilot she walked towards the internal window and twisted the rod, coating the small office in a soft shadow.

Bridget made her way over to the bright neon green armchairs in the far corner of the cramped office. Now ex-governor Joan Ferguson had refused to allow her any more space than the minimum. Bridget figured Ferguson saw her as a nuisance, only there to comply with the rules and regulations laid upon the prison staff by the government. Lowering herself onto the bright-colored polyester, she felt the tears she had managed to suppress so far spill onto her cheeks. Dropping her face into her hands, she cried with deep, silent sobs, letting the panic and hurt leave her body and mind.

Franky had assaulted her. Franky had cornered her, torn open her blouse, groped her breasts, tried to thrust her hand between Bridget's legs. But why? This was not the Franky she had seen grow so much since she met her; since she left this horrific place. Because hey, let's face it. Wentworth was no happy-go-lucky location to be in. If anything, this was an action more fitting for a top dog, or someone like Lucy Gambaro. Why had Franky done it? What had Bridget done to force her into a position where this was her most logical reaction?

Franky had told her to stay away. She hadn't. In fact, she'd forced herself onto the younger woman, going out of her way to see her, to spend time with her, to touch her. She'd been the one overstepping boundaries first, before Franky had. But God, why couldn't Franky see she was only doing this out of love for her? Bridget didn't know how she would survive without seeing those beautiful green eyes, without being able to trail her fingers across that gorgeous olive skin, without feeling the sensation of those soft lips against her own. The thought of having to go without all of that caused her shoulders to shake with sadness and grief.

She would have to respect Franky's request, wouldn't she? But would she be able to? Glancing at the clock on the wall she realized it was nearly time for lunch. She could use some food - the panic and adrenalin had caused her to burn through her mid-morning granola bar quickly, and she was definitely feeling it. Maybe after eating something she'd feel a little better. It was worth a shot.

-x-

The world seemed to pass her by as Bridget walked towards the break room. Her head felt full and the tears were still threatening to spill, like a glass so full the water sphered at the rim. She grabbed a mug from the cabinet and made herself a cup of tea. Coffee probably would only make her jitteriness worse. She took a mindless sip of the hot liquid as she tried to remember what she'd brought for lunch today. Oh, that was right. Just a simple cheese sandwich. She could hear Franky's voice in her head: "Gidge, that's no lunch!" Three days, and already she found herself missing the brunette's delicious meals. Shaking her head, she sat down, away from the guards who were having their breaks. She couldn't deal with small talk right now.

Bridget forced herself to get the food down her throat. No matter how nauseated she felt, she knew her body would need food to get through the day. Just make it through the rest of your appointments, and you'll be okay. She found herself getting lost in thought again. The events kept replaying in her head, on a loop like a broken record. "Or maybe that's what turns you on? I'm your big fuckin' prison fantasy!" Was that really all this was? Physical attraction? Excitement? No...it wasn't. At least, not for her. It was love. Genuine, unfiltered, all-encompassing love. Did Franky feel the same? She thought she did. It felt like she did. She was sure she did. Almost sure.

She closed her eyes and let her cheek rest upon her shoulder. Just breathe. It'll be okay. She could hear footsteps nearing, and someone sitting down to her left. Opening her eyes, she stared into the face of Governor Vera Bennett.

"You okay?" The simplicity of the question itself and the complexity of the answer running through her mind nearly made her laugh. All she could manage to reply was a breathy: "Yeah." Judging from the look on Vera's face, she didn't believe her, but dropped the subject nevertheless. That was the thing about Vera: once she'd gotten an answer to a question, she moved on; right now that was perfect. The other woman took a breath, and announced: "I need to show you something." She unfolded a piece of paper. "Ferguson had this sent to the Ombudsman." Bridget nodded. Of course she had. This was Joan Ferguson. "It's a letter, detailing your continued involvement with Franky and my knowledge of the relationship." Vera angled the text towards Bridget. She accepted the letter and scanned the lines. Fuck, this was bad news. "The Ombudsman is coming in this afternoon to discuss it."

"I'm so sorry," Bridget offered, but Vera smiled and shook her head.

"This isn't about you. Or Franky." Bridget could feel a headache coming up. She lifted her hand to her forehead and lips, trying to hold back the rush of emotion she felt at the mention of the younger woman's name. "It's me she's after. She wants to ruin my career."

No, she couldn't let Vera throw away her career for this. The woman had worked long and hard to get where she was, and this was Bridget's fuck-up. She couldn't let Vera take the fall.

"I'll, uh, I'll resign," she stammered, trying to turn her thoughts into words, "so, uh, I'll just quit. You deny everything, and just…" There was only one way to solve this. "Just blame me, Vera. Just blame me." She could hear the defeat in her own voice, and lowered her eyes to the letter. Don't cry in front of her. Don't.

"You shouldn't make a rash decision in a negative frame of mind; I'm sure you told me that once," Vera interjected. Bridget laughed through her tears at the ridicule of having her own words thrown back at her: "Yeah, that sounds like me." She looked back into Vera's eyes.

"I don't want you to leave." Vera took the letter back from her and got up. "The Ombudsman will be here in about an hour. Can you come to my office in about fifty?" Bridget nodded. She could do that. She could do this. Just get through the day, Westfall.

-x-

The meeting with the Ombudsman felt like a blur. Bridget barely registered the man sitting across the table from her and Vera. Her thoughts were going a mile a minute, while at the same time she was trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"Miss Westfall's contact with Francesca Doyle…" Franky...where would she be right now? Was she okay? She'd give anything to be able to walk through those hallways right now and go to her. Talk to her. Talk about what happened. She knew Franky - the younger woman's thought would be going in thousands of directions right now.

"...isn't that right, Miss Westfall?" She looked to her left and saw Vera looking at her expectantly. Bridget cleared her throat, and confirmed: "Yes." She smiled, though she had no idea what she had attested to, but Vera seemed pleased, and so did the Ombudsman. Pay attention. This may be your only chance at staying here. At still being able to see her, even if she won't let you come near her. Concentrate.

"Thank you very much for understanding, sir. This has all been an unfortunate attempt of Miss Ferguson's, to discredit both Miss Westfall and myself. Can I confirm the matter has now been dealt with?" Vera asked as she showed the man out of the conference room.

"Oh, definitely, governor. Thank you both for meeting with me to clear this up. If you will excuse me, I have to leave." He turned around and shook Bridget's hand, acknowledging her: "Miss Westfall." Bridget smiled politely at him.

"Of course. Miss Miles, would you please show Mister Glass the way to the exit?" The chagrined face of Linda Miles appeared in the doorway and begrudgingly escorted the man down the hall.

Vera turned towards Bridget. "Bridget, I think you should go home early today." Before Bridget could interject, she added: "And I'm not taking no for an answer. As governor, I'm telling you to. As your friend, I'm asking you to. Please." Bridget took a deep breath to start her negative reply. But...maybe Vera was right. She let the air leave her lungs on a deep sigh, and nodded gently.

"You've been through a lot today. Go home; rest, recharge, and I'll see you back tomorrow." Vera raised a hand and let it hang in the open space between them for a second before lowering it again. "Your wellbeing matters to me. And to someone else in this building." Bridget nearly scoffed at the mention.

-x-

Franky walked into the courtyard all by herself, quickly scouting the entire area for the quietest place to sit. She would soon regain the strength to put up her brave face again and turn into Old Franky again. Or was that New Franky now? Or was she New Franky up until a few hours ago and was she now a whole Different Franky? The remorse gnawed at her stomach and she involuntarily kept looking at the clock, knowing instinctively that Bridget Westfall would still be somewhere in the prison and what the day – or the end of it – would hold for her.

Realizing that her face was all too familiar and would very quickly attract peers that she did not feel like meeting up with right now, she beelined straight to the vendor and bought herself a magazine that she did not care to read. Shielding her face with it, she crossed the yard to one of the least popular spots; anywhere near to the separate exercise cage. Those engaging in there were able to create a horrific amount of noise that no one ever wanted to be near or a spectator of.

Franky sat down with her back against the iron grated wall, bringing her knees up just enough for her to be able to rest the magazine on them as convincingly as she knew how to at this moment, opening the booklet mindlessly somewhere close to the middle. The lady that was now staring into her soul all the way from that piece of paper annoyed her to no end, so she aggressively tore the page from the magazine and turning it into a tiny visible ball of paper rage between her right hand and the ground.

It did not take long before a pair of white gym shoes were standing next to her. Per automatic response, Franky gave the person who wore them a quick lookover before groaning inwardly and turning her attention back to the direction of her knees as she rolled her eyes. "Piss off!"

But Joan Ferguson was very commonly greeted with a catchphrase like this one nowadays and was not the least taken aback by it now. "I just wonder what happened that made this...defenseless inanimate object the receiver of such crushing violence."

Franky, being reminded of an entirely different kind of violence earlier afflicted by herself as well, could feel the emotion making its way back to the surface and knew of no different way to avoid this than by simply turning her back towards the former governor. Without a word, she scooted herself a full ninety degrees sideways. She brought up her knees a little closer than before, so she could rest her elbow on it and shield the side of her face with her hand.

She heard some shuffling behind her which had nothing to do with the sound of feet walking away from her and everything with someone getting more comfortable on a level that's lower than they found themselves at originally. Franky closes her eyes for a brief second in frustration as she angrily bites down on the inside of her lip, before nodding her face back into a neutral position with a small shake of the head. She should have known. That fucking freak got off on negative energy and sees silence as an invitation. She should try being civil the next time.

"You're usually not out here at this time of the day," by the way that the tone of her voice was still stuck in the low keys of expressing a fact, Franky deduced that she was not done with her yet and mentally braced herself. "This is when you usually do your boxing training up ahead – God knows why you like it – but I wonder why you're not there now." Silence. Franky did not know what else to offer her that was actually legal. "Are you injured perhaps?"

"Can you shut the fuck up now? I just came here to enjoy the sun." She could strangle herself for sounding as unconvincing as she did.

"Truly? Then you must have a better update on the weather than I do. It looks particularly cloudy today, don't you think?" Well, she deserved that for her weakling excuse. Being silent previously served her better, so Franky decided to just pursue that for now. "Alright. I'll let you in on a little secret. People tend to change their posture when they are hurt to avoid worsening the injury and to protect their bodies from any further damage. Judging by how you changed yours, I'd say it's your left arm."

"We have Medical for injured prisoners."

"I am aware of that, thank you, Doyle. It is a pity that prisoners who self-destruct do still tend to fall through the cracks, nevertheless. It's going to be particularly hard to hide that arm when you're in the showers with the rest of them."

"'Them?'" Franky recoiled.

"Yes, I learned my lesson a while ago. I take showers on different occasions." Franky continued to ignore her by staring down at the magazine in her lap, but Ferguson did mention a valid argument here. Her arm could not possibly be more than just a bad sprain when Gidget had grabbed her tightly and then had to use her entire weight to bump her off of her. Medical could put a nice and shiny white bandage on it for her, but it would make her look weak like the idiot that she felt she was. Lord knows for how long she was going to have to stay in here for, but she had yet to find her place in the current prisoner hierarchy and she had never been good at being a follower. Or a ghost. "I suppose you must be quite worried about this predicament you are now finding yourself in."

"I reckon I wouldn't be," Franky refused to look up, "even if I only had a single clue as to what you're referring to." To prove her point, she even turned a quick page with her healthy arm. However, this caused her to lose sight of her surroundings and in that moment, however swift, Ferguson had somehow made her way in front of her and squatted down to her level. The surprise of being confronted with that freak's face suddenly in such close proximity to hers caught her so off guard that she did not think to protect herself at all and within minutes, Ferguson had Franky's left arm in a vice grip.

Joan smiled as her action instantly led to the younger woman's unwanted reaction of her questioning look turning into a pained grimace and her entire upper body fell forward as her natural instincts kicked in to curl herself into a fetal position. "Well, well, well," despite Franky's very strong pull to regain custody of her own body, Ferguson did not let go of her.

Instead of actually assessing the arm, she did a fast look-over and then tried to recapture Franky's eyes. Franky herself was trying to avoid that happening at all cost, as the pain shooting out to nerve endings all over her body were triggering an adrenaline response for the second time that day. "Fuck off me!"

"It would seem that your little stint this morning left more than just your one desired victim. Did it not?" Ferguson asked with a smile, all the while still holding Franky's arm hostage. Franky decided to stop the struggle and narrowed her eyes at her. Of course stabbing Red to death would have required a certain amount of strength, but where the hell did this death grip come from? "I'm hoping that this clue is obvious enough for you. When I mentioned your left arm, I was insinuating this limb right here."

Wrestling Ferguson to the ground would not end in her favor; Franky could tell that much. Continuing to fight her for release of her arm was most likely only going to alert the other prisoners, with all of them learning immediately of her current temporary weak spot and all of them not waiting to push it. Franky ignored all the alarm bells screeching inside of her head when she straightened her back and set upright again, moving her head forward until there were mere inches between hers and Fergusons. "Hold that 'limb' for one more second and I will dislocate your jaw with one of the others."

Ferguson laughed, but did finally release her arm. "Oh Doyle...," she sighed. "Haven't you lost enough for just one day?" Without offering her another look, Ferguson pushed herself up from her squat and stood back up. Not liking the way that she was now looming over her – not just with her posture, but with her shadow too – Franky decided to stand up as well. They stood side by side, the one obviously not trusting the other far enough out of their sight as Franky looked into the exercise yard where she much preferred to be and Ferguson facing the directly opposite way into the courtyard. "You've fractured your radius in at least two places. You need to go to Medical and they will have to transport you to an emergency room outside of this prison."

"Tsh!" Franky dismissed her. She could still move the fingers of her arm, which made it highly unlikely for one of the two bones to be broken. Franky slid her left hand in the pocket of her teal vest and was glad to establish that she could still move her middle finger and thumb so that they could touch each other. Of course it hurt, but... no one was saying that it should not hurt when you try to rape your girlfriend and continue just as long until her attempts to fight you off actually start to hold meaning to them. Would she have actually been able to go through with it? When had she planned to end it herself?

There was no plan.

She could feel the freak cooking up her next move against her as they stood beside each other. Franky did not care. She just wanted her to leave. Franky just wanted to – never mind.

"I'm saying this to help you..." Ferguson started.

"Bullshit!" Franky jumped, turning herself just enough so she could get a look at her. "You don't help anyone! Not unless it's out of the frying pan and into the fire, that is." Franky wrapped her right arm across her stomach so that she could rest her left arm on top of it and make it look as if she was standing naturally with her arms crossed in front of her to everybody else.

Joan did not even look back at her. She was plucking at something on the hem of her sweatshirt that was invisible to everybody else, as usual. "Well, we both know that's not true, Doyle." She then surprised Franky by suddenly looking up at her. "Where's the fun in that?" She whispered. Franky's mouth dropped open in mild amusement. "Hm?"

Franky shrugged her shoulders. To be honest, she had been convinced that this was one of many of Ferguson's rhetoric questions. "Don't blame me for you choosing a career that consists of incarcerating dickheads that have the average intelligence of a flower bulb." Franky now turned herself to face the same yard as Ferguson. She leaned against the iron fencing with her back. "Also, building people up just to tear them all apart to a new low later, shows just how fucked you are. I'm not taking any 'help' from you. Everyone who ever did, ended up breaking the law or turned up dead."

"Well, whatever you decide is ultimately up to you. However, considering we are halfway down the afternoon already, if your arm fracture turns out to need a treatment that consist of more than fixating it in a cast, you might have to stay overnight. During the evening and night hours the specialized orthopedic doctors and surgeons are largely understaffed, so...," Franky listened silently. "The same goes for the staff at Wentworth. At night, you will not be monitored by a screw sitting outside your room. You will just be handcuffed to the bed with one wrist. Sadly, for you that will mean the wrist from your good arm. However, I'm sure that after all this time you and Miss Westfall have become quite creative when doing your...business. From eleven at night until seven in the morning, there will not be anyone to disturb you."

Franky's face had dropped midway Ferguson's monologue, but her lack of conjuring up the perfect retort had failed her ability to interrupt her. She was quickly losing sight of what she wanted, what she needed and what she could not do. Of course, her parole was fucked already and for her own sanity, it would be great if there was someone that she could talk to or find an ally in. "I just keep wondering when I missed that newspaper article about humans developing x-ray vision..."

Of course she would never even consider Ferguson for that position; she knew better than that. She had once been able to rely on her own and she would be able to do it again. After she figured out a way to regroup. "I am not wrong. Without medical intervention, your arm will not be able to heal properly." Franky just shrugged her shoulders in reply. All that would happen is that she would be pressed for the who, how and why she hurt that stupid arm. Not that she would say anything, but being grilled about it when the scene kept replaying in her head would not help her either.

 _Don't worry about it. I can handle it._

"You're not going to, are you?" Ferguson broke Franky's train of thought. Franky looked at her and saw that satisfied smirk appear on Ferguson's lips and it meant little good. She was going to try to weasel her way into her brain like the dirty snake that she was. She just stood there; looking at Franky like the battle was already won.

Franky stepped out and braced herself, shrugging her shoulders and mimicking the smirk but turning it into an amused one. "You've got nothing on me. It's just a fucking sprain." Franky showed her left hand with her middle finger touching her thumb. "See? I'm sorry to disappoint you." It hurt like crazy, but Franky was determined to keep her smile up.

The former governor let out a small unimpressed chuckle. "You won't be able to do that by tomorrow." Franky dropped both her hands and placed them on her hips defiantly. "If you think that physical pain is more manageable than a broken heart, then I have to disappoint you. Not only is that reasoning defective; the satisfaction of this type of…," Ferguson looked the young woman up and down, before continuing her sentence, "release, is very short."

Franky nodded and leaned her head back. "I'm impressed." But not really. "Which medical romance novel did you quote that one from? I know that most books in our library are crap, but—"

"For a lawyer in training or well…formerly in training, you do not listen very well, Doyle. Not to mention your definite lack of interpretation skills." Ferguson glanced at the court yard, where everyone seemed to be engaged in either a basketball game, a talk among peers or some very obvious drug dealing. She leaned forward to Franky conspiringly, who in turn did not move at all. "I know about you and Miss Westfall."

Franky laughed out loud, throwing her head back before leaning into Ferguson as well. "You know. Jack. Shit."

Ferguson stood up straight again, knowing that she was now starting to strike a nerve. "Well, it's no longer just a rumor. I saw the Ombudsman arrive two hours ago." Ferguson nodded into the direction of the entrance and exit for personnel. "He has been alerted to your affair. He even knows that Vera has been allowing it to take place right in front of her eyes. The fact that I haven't seen him leave yet, probably means that it is a very time-consuming conversation…"

Franky raised her eyebrows. "So you're not just a lagger? You're a lagger who's wrong." Franky made a face and pulled her shoulders up.

"You don't have to believe me. Ask anyone who was with you in H3 this morning." Franky's smile fell for a moment, unsure of where this was going. Ferguson was done smirking as well and that is when she was the most dangerous. "Everyone could hear you trying to…persuade Miss Westfall to leave you to your own devices."

Franky was taken aback. How many people had actually witnessed the scene? Gidge had stormed out of her room without fixing her clothes. She had torn her shirt open from top to bottom. Had people seen her as exposed as Franky made her? Franky's eyes stared into the nothingness as she shook her head violently. "Nah."

"And because she wouldn't listen to your earlier warnings, you responded the only way you know how to."

Franky just continued to shake her head. She could storm off, but that would mean that she gave Ferguson the upper hand. Even worse, she would know just how to get to Franky. Franky could not do her that favor. "Shut up. Leave it alone."

"You attacked her." _Just one last time. I know you want it._

Franky's heart was racing and her breathing quickened. Her eyes were spitting fire and she found it hard to stand still. She made sure not to meet Ferguson's eyes by bringing her hands up to her face, wiping sweat from her forehead that was not there and even resting them against her eyes. _I'm trying to get you off like a fucking crim'!_ "Shut up."

"And that's when she broke your arm."

Franky turned herself away from Ferguson and tried to get her breathing under control. She exhaled slowly a few times as all the memories flooded her mind. Just days ago she was sharing a bed with the woman that she was now so desperate to get away from. She needed to forget. These good days would never happen anymore. She would be charged with twenty-five years with first degree murder. Manslaughter if she was lucky, but as a repeat offender she had the system against her. _This is what you want, isn't it?_ "Shut up!"

"However much I understand your motives for this self-castigation, it will never succeed."

Franky felt her control slipping right out of her fingers and why should she not give in? _Maybe this is where I belong. Behind bars like a fucking bad girl._ Gidge…even if they managed to stay together during her sentence, they would be condemned to what? Quick kisses in her cell? Forced fucking on her office desk? Prison was no place for romance. _Franky, you know that's not true._

"Because there is no real end to it, is there? The bone will heal wrong, but I guess that's the same for rape. The visible scars will heal, but on the inside they never do. It obviously was the same for Miss Westfall. The panic on her face after your sexual onslaught against her, read that it reminded her of the time that she had not been able to get away." _Well, come on. Let's go! Let's fuck._ "So that hardly makes you a martyr then, does it?"

And with that, Franky lunged upon the former governor, grabbing her by the neck of her sweater and pulling it tight. Being a lot smaller than her, Franky used her weight for extra force to drag her down and apply a choking hold on her. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I warned you before!"

Ferguson looked at Franky with feigned empathy. "I'm surprised you didn't know. It's hardly a secret." If she was in any way impaired by Franky's stronghold of her, than she was not showing it at all, fuelling Franky's rage even further. She tightened her grip on her. "At the risk of sounding condescending; how are you planning to take me down with just one arm, hm?"

Franky had both hands hooked into the fabric of the sweater, so that her fists were pressed into the freak's neck. However, only one arm was able to put actual pressure against it. "I don't care to take you down; you've made great work of that yourself. I just want you to shut the fuck up with the lies."

"Nothing that I've told you now is a lie. You can ask Miss Westfall the next time you see her. I'm sure that won't be long." Ferguson managed to stay really calm in the face of anger. Franky was just figuring out her next move when the shadow of someone else appearing next to them alerted her.

"What's going on here?" Recognizing Kaz Proctor's voice, Franky just narrowed her eyes and continued her stare at Ferguson. "Haven't we settled on you agreeing to follow my rules before? Let go of her!"

"I don't answer to you."

"Well, you should! I am top dog!" Kaz's patience was obviously running out fast, by the way she raised her volume and slowed down on her pronunciation of her last word. Franky just would not spare her a single look.

Franky was no longer susceptible to any reasoning, having been pushed too far for too long. "I don't care if you're top dog or fucking bottom cat! You better go before I smash both your heads in!"

"I highly doubt that," Ferguson added. Then there was the screeching sound of the heavy employees' entrance door opening. Ferguson glanced over quickly, by simply extending her neck backwards over Franky's fist. "Now's your chance, Doyle."

Franky looked over her right shoulder to see Bridget standing outside, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, the ridiculous transparent container that every employee got to take with them inside the prison leaning on it. Franky recognized her bread container, water bottle and her paper agenda inside of them. In her hands, she was holding some files in her hands. Franky's heart jumped nervously inside of her chest. This whole scene was not right! Gidge did not finish work until five and she never brought files home with her.

Before the door fell closed behind her, another hand appeared and pushed it open again. Vera Bennett appeared and placed her hands on the psychologist's shoulders. Had Ferguson not been shitting her earlier about the Ombudsman knowing? Was she fired? Or physically hurt? If she really had been raped in the past, than what would that mean for what had just happened between them earlier that day?

"You're bleeding again," Ferguson pointed out, redirecting Franky's attention back to her. She was right. Because she had the sleeves of her vest rolled up to her elbows, the trickle of blood was very visible, making its way into the teal fabric. "That spot will certainly make for a remarkable tattoo."

Franky's mind was racing a million miles an hour, but none of them included Joan Ferguson or Kaz Proctor. Franky looked over to the small passageway beyond the courtyard and suddenly locked eyes with her partner. Or ex-partner. Or whatever.

Franky now understood what it meant when books mentioned that in a single look, time can seem to stand still. It is not that she was looking at her any sort of way, but it was enough for Franky to feel very unsettled. Her stomach was in knots and she found that she was unable to look away. If Gidge had gotten injured, then she was not showing it. If this was their last goodbye, she was not letting it on either. She would go home now – or to the hospital! Is that why she was leaving earlier?

Despite the heat, Gidge had that jacket zipped up as far as she could and Franky knew exactly why. A part of her wants to know and assess the damage done, but that would make it really hard for her to act indifferent. There were certain parts of Prison Franky that she would never want to show her. The girl who fought so hard for power, sold sexual favors from Boomer in return for drugs and always had a prison girlfriend to fuck was changed by Gidge's presence and the promise of a future had changed all of that in her. And though they were so far apart and separated by more than that fucking fence, Franky knew exactly what these eyes were telling her. _You wanna push me away?_

"Ugh!" In her daze of looking at the woman she had loved to go home with, her grip of Ferguson's sweatshirt had loosened. The one moment she was looking at the psychologist and the next thing she knew, she had received a blow to the chest, right above her breasts. The connection between her and Bridget was instantly broken as Franky fell back to the pavement, hitting not just her back, but also her head on impact. _You fuckin' failed!_ Franky's face contorted in pain, although it was influenced more by the element of surprise rather than actual discomfort.

Franky's first instinct was to sit back up, wondering what the hell had happened. Placing both her hands on the ground so that she could push herself back up, she felt how her left arm gave way and she fell back again. Do not let Gidge see you this way; you are fine. You are just fine – no, even better without her. "Are you okay?" She heard Kaz ask somewhere in the background. Whether it was meant for her or Ferguson, she did not care. She had no intention of feeding that woman any information at all. "Which part of 'no violence towards other women' is too hard for you to understand?"

The young brunette blinked a few times before turning herself on her left side, so that she could scramble to her feet while pushing herself off with just her right arm. She stood back up with her back towards Ferguson and Kaz. And if she was still out there, she could not see Gidge. "It was just a harmless push against the sternum. It was self-defense." Really, freak? Fucking self-defense? _Stop it. Stop it!_

Franky reached for her stomach as she straightened herself back up. The gnawing feeling had completely been replaced by a queasiness that made her feel like she never would be able to eat again. Was it true? Was it really true? Then why had Gidge not said anything, ever? Franky felt her mouth fill with saliva and knew what that meant. Without any further looks, she started sprinting to the corner in the far back, where there was a short iron enclosure that would force the inmates right back into the prison. All that she wanted right now, was to get as far away from everyone as she could possibly get and back to her own cell. _Don't you do this!_

But she barely made it to that corner before her body doubled over and she threw up that little water she drank during lunch and that one crust of bread. _You wanna hurt me? Hm?_ Franky raised both her arms above her head, keeping her hair out of her face. Everything fucking hurt. Her arm, her stomach, her head… No tears in the world would be able to relieve that for her. Franky waited until her gag reflex was under control, before lowering her right arm to her mouth.

"Now you must definitely go to medical. I wouldn't want to catch that bug," she heard Ferguson call out to her. Franky just closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly to prevent it from happening again. "Or is it perhaps a parasite?" Not wanting to find out what other tricks her body could do if she let her emotions get played any longer, she kept shielding her mouth with her arm, using the other to wildly wave it in the direction of two guards who came running in her direction as she made a sharp turn to the left and ran back inside the building. The magazine lay discarded on the ground as a silent witness disappearing back into the stillness of the wind. _Congratulations, baby._

 _-x-_

Bridget left her office, files under her arm. Being sent home early didn't mean she couldn't take any work home, maybe write up some reports that were nearly due. She stopped by the locker area and grabbed her things.

"Going home early, Bridget?" Bridget tried to suppress the cringe threatening to break out. Smiling, she turned to her right.

"So it seems, Jake." She didn't like the guard. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he just was so, so...Jake.

"I thought you'd be doing a group therapy session this afternoon?" Bridget shook her head, and replied: "No, that's tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to go now." She raised an eyebrow and gently pushed past him, making her way towards the exit. Just as she set her first few steps outside, she was met with the face of Vera. The governor awkwardly raised her hands to Bridget's shoulders and grasped her, squeezing lightly. Vera smiled uncertainly, and softly said: "Take care, and I'll see you tomorrow." Her hands lingered on Bridget's shoulders until Bridget gently cleared her throat. Vera's eyes widened, and she dropped her arms to her sides. "Okay, well, tomorrow. Uh, bye." The woman hurried towards her office. Just leave me in peace, would you, Jake. She didn't have the energy or resilience to deal with him right now. She felt lucky she managed to get a reasonable answer out in response to his sudden intrusion. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Franky. Of what had happened, of whether she was okay, of whether they were okay. They were still together, weren't they? They hadn't officially broken up...but she wasn't completely sure of where they stood either.

She continued out of the building and stood still with closed eyes, letting the bright beams of the afternoon sun warm her face. Bridget looked around as she began her walk towards the exit gate. There weren't too many inmates in the courtyard at this time of day. She spotted some of the inmates she'd spoken to this morning. Good, some fresh outside air would do them well. Suddenly she spotted Franky on the other end of the pavement...with the collar of Ferguson's sweater in a death grip. Kaz Proctor was standing nearby, seemingly trying to break them up. Shit, Franky! What the hell was she doing? Franky looked up, and their eyes locked. Bridget felt tears well up again. The brunette could look at her like she could see past her eyes, all the way into her heart and soul. All of a sudden she saw Ferguson push against Franky's sternum, and the younger woman fell backwards, crashing to the ground. Bridget's eyes widened and her mouth opened in a silent scream she could barely contain. She felt paralyzed as she watched Franky's face scrunch up at the impact of her back on the pavement. Please be okay. Please get up. Franky scrambled up and ran off towards the corner of the courtyard. Quickening her pace, Bridget moved around the bend, trying to get closer to her, to keep her in her sights. She could just see Franky vomiting near the wall, before the brunette ran back inside of the building. Fuck. Bridget glanced back over to Ferguson. The tall woman smirked at her and raised her hand in a small, sarcastic wave. 'Fuck you, Joan Ferguson!' her mind screamed at the satisfied face staring at her. Instead, Bridget redirected her gaze towards the gate that would let her leave the grounds. 'So there's still something I have that you don't, Joan. Freedom,' she told herself. A little voice in the back of her mind asked: 'Do you, really?'

-x-

Franky had resigned herself to lying on that pathetic excuse for a bed for the remainder of the afternoon. She had managed to get her hands on a red ballpoint pen and had broken it apart into just enough parts that would get the job done. Because the fingers of her left hand would sometimes just freeze mid-conduct, Franky had to make use of balancing some amenities between her lips. It worked just fine, but it did make things a bit more messy than usual. The bleeding had gotten bad enough that she had to wash her arm in the sink a few times in between, because the red ink would not be visible underneath the blood anymore.

She was now lying down on her side, nursing the inflamed skin of her relatively simple new wrist tattoo with her own saliva. She was resting her left arm on the bedding, hoping it would feel better in the morning if she left it alone. She was not going in for dinner anyway.

"Hey!" Franky looked up to see Allie Novak leaning with her arm against the doorpost of Franky's cell. Not quite knowing what to say because she had not accurately established her current frame of mind, Franky just looked back to her own wrist. "I heard you blew chunks all over the yard today." Franky just raised her eyebrows in reply. Not only did Red's girl ask a lot of questions, she was very susceptible to prison gossip as well. "I came to bring you some tea to settle your stomach." Franky looked up again, only this time noticing that she was holding a mug in her other hand.

When Franky did not immediately look away again, Allie took that as her cue to enter the cell. As Franky sighed audibly, she placed the mug on the ground next to Franky. "My stomach is fine, thank you." Franky said. There was a small second of an increase of noise outside her door, making both Franky and Allie turn their heads toward it. Kaz entered H3 and shot a look at Franky as she walked back to her own cell which was inconveniently located next to Franky's. Which reminded Franky… "Unless it's Westfall. In that case it's the Noro fucking virus."

"Oh, you mean Gidget?" Allie dumped into Franky's lap, earning her a shocked expression from the other woman. "Ooh," she said in a teasingly triumphant manner, "I got you with that one, didn't I?"

Franky slung her legs over the edge of the bed and used her weight to sit herself back up. "No. Nah…," Franky reached for the mug of steaming tea on the ground and brought it up to rest in her lap. "It's not a secret that I call her that." Franky shook her head. _Used_ to call her that.

Novak sat back against the wall. "What happened?"

No big deal; just tried to scare her off by raping her. Which apparently would not be the first time that it happened to her. Franky shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know! What should have happened?"

"Enough that would cause you to lose your meal outside." Allie smiled at her empathetically.

"What do you know, she's just a really bad cook," Franky gritted her teeth and made a face. She took a sip of the tea, trusting Allie enough not to attempt to poison her. However… Franky scrunched up her face. "This is fucking vile without sugar!"

Allie sat herself up straighter. "Well, I didn't want to upset your stomach again!" Allie looked up at the brunette defensively. Blue eyes met green, before both girls erupted in some carefree laughter.

-x-

Bridget felt the willpower leave her body the moment she crossed the threshold of the front door. Her defenses dropped; her carefully-constructed walls collapsed, and she felt her knees buckle. The weight of the day was pushing her towards the ground. She let her bags drop to the floor. The sound of the impact felt like a nuclear explosion in the otherwise silent home. She managed to stumble to the bedroom before collapsing face-down onto the bed. Their bed. Sobs racked her body, leaving her trembling on top of the duvet.

Franky, what have you done? She turned onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. This isn't the same as then, Bridget. This is different. This isn't aggression merely for the sake of power. Franky doesn't get off on this. This is different. You love Franky, and Franky loves you. You know she does.

Bridget focused her attention on her breathing. After what seemed like hours, she felt her heart rate start to slow down and the shaking of her limbs to lessen. Maybe a bath would help her relax. She got up, a little unsteady still, and dragged her body towards the bathroom. While she let the tub fill up, she raised her hands to the zipper of her jacket. She winced as she pulled it down and was met with the torn black fabric of her blouse and bare skin. When she'd let both items of clothing drop to the tiles, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Angry-looking purple and blue bruises covered the left side of her abdomen. She unclasped her bra to discover a large discoloration on her breast. Well that was just fantastic, wasn't it? Shaking her head, she quickly undressed completely and let the warm water engulf her body. Maybe she'd leave the reports; go to bed early today. It'd all be better in the morning. It just had to be.

-x-

Franky had closed the door to her room early that night, claiming that she was going to go to sleep. She had slowly gotten herself dressed into a white prisoner's shirt and a wide grey pajama pants that had been the largest struggle to put on. She did not have many clothing items of her own in the prison at this time; neither did she care for them. She was much too shaken to be able to sleep at all. As she lay inside her bed, she cried silently. The covers shook around her as her body was wrecked with sobs.

When the door to her cell opened, Franky was completely taken by surprise. To hide herself from whomever was standing in the doorway, Franky threw an arm over her eyes and swallowed her grief for as much as it was possible. "Go away if you don't want to get sick!" She called out to her unwanted guest, hoping that the risk of a gastric flu would be enough to scare them out.

"Doyle, you are a lot of things, but you're not sick and we both know it." Oh great, Vinegar Tits to end her day on an even more positive note. She apparently stepped inside, because the next thing that Franky heard was the sound of her door shutting and just the pedantic tone of her voice let Franky know that she was not done with her yet. Franky turned on her side, facing the wall. "So uh…I caught Miss Westfall in tears in the staff room today." Franky kept her eyes shut, but had to bite down hard on the inside of her lip to prevent it from trembling. "I was wondering if you knew anything about that."

Franky let out an audible sigh. "No, of course not. Now can I go back to sleep?"

"I think that you do, because when I saw her an hour and a half earlier to give her my okay to a counseling session with you, she seemed fine." _Come on. Let's talk in my office._

Franky paid close attention to keeping her breathing under control. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say that you'll watch yourself. I understand the difficulty you may have settling back in, but you don't get to take your personal frustration out on prison personnel, including those who are not wearing a uniform. She nearly quit this afternoon, which I do not think she would ever do if she could still get to…" There was a pause in her speech and Franky started filling in words for her. Fuck? Safety? Be happy? "You."

The words cut through Franky's body like sharpened knives and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to do or say anything that she really should not do. Kaz was sleeping right next to her, after all. "Nothing happened." Yet.

"If I ever do find out that you are abusing your connection to Miss Westfall and her suffering adverse effects from it, than so help me, Doyle. It will be you paying the consequences and not her!" Governor Bennett was doing everything to keep her voice down, but Franky could tell that she was very angry. She honestly did not know that she had it in her. A tear trickled down from her eye, down her cheek and onto her pillow.

"And?"

"And if you can't help yourself," the governor took a deep breath, "…then stay away from her." Without waiting for another response from Franky, she opened the door again and stepped outside. "One last thing. The guards said that you hit your head when you fell in the yard today. You didn't check yourself into Medical, but especially since you had to vomit afterwards, nurse Radcliffe said that you may have a concussion." Oh, Franky would just love to be concussed right now. Preferably one of those where you do not wake up from anymore. "So just for your sake, the night guards will wake you twice tonight." And with that, the door finally did close.

Franky turned herself on her back again, tears streaming down both of her cheeks. "Fuck!" She cursed in a hushed voice as her breath faltered. Did they not see? Was it not obvious? Staying away was exactly what she was doing. Whether she wanted to or not was not even the question at hand. The fact was that she was here, all by herself. The days of being outside and with Gidge were long gone. _Congratulations, baby._

-x-

 **Authors' Note:**

Thank you for reading the first chapter of The Clock Is Ticking! We're very excited to hear what you thought, so please let us know in a review, and likes are - as always - highly appreciated.


	2. 2: Unsteady

This chapter was inspired by a dance titled 'Unsteady', which can be found at watch?v=nontS99WQN4.

-x-

' _Attention compound, attention compound...'_

Francesca Doyle startlingly awoke from her slumber as the intercom sounded throughout the entire cellblock H. Her sleep had been fragmented and very short, leaving her feeling listless and her body as heavy as a rock as she dragged herself upwards in a sitting position. When the first guard came to check up on her, she had still been awake. As he lifted the fabric in front of the small glass in her cell door which offered a look inside, Franky waved at him. "I'm still alive!" She had called out, after which the guard had mumbled something about her going back to sleep. The second time, she had apparently fallen asleep, because she had not woken up until the guard opened her cell door.

Franky felt extremely tired, although she was not sure if this was the kind that sleep would be able to cure. Almost immediately the stabbing pain sensation in her left arm set in. Franky scooted herself to the edge of the bed, until the strip of light through the window of her cell, fell exactly in her lap. When Franky carefully maneuvered her arm by cradling it with the other, she was alarmed by the difference in appearance of the two arms. Her left arm was red and swollen to almost twice the size of her right arm. The thing that annoyed her most was that that freak Joan Ferguson was right. She could barely move her fingers anymore, but maybe that was caused by the swelling. Her left arm was now almost as wide as her hand...

Looking around her cell did not give her any ideas. She had nothing but her uniform, the clothing she was wearing when she arrived here and some spare items that came from the storage. She had her own bra, but now for the time being, she was given a couple of the ugliest white paper knickers that had been sealed in sterile paper bags. They were as sexless as possible and they were not even her size! It was supposed to be a one size fits all, but apparently only if your size is a medium. Franky was an obvious small or even an extra small depending on the brand, but at least they were functional. She had one grey pajama pants which had either belonged to a former prisoner or was donated, but this one would at least hang around her hips. Within a few days, she would have access to her account and be assigned work so that she would be able to purchase a couple of new things for herself.

"Oh fuck…" Whereas her arm was a mere nuisance yesterday, its size – aside from the pain – and red color were forming a huge problem today. It was a neon sign that pointed other inmates directly to her weak spot and therefore it just could not be. Franky pushed the covers off of her and stood up, looking around her cell. It was not until she saw her reflection in the metal plate above the sink that an idea popped up into her head.

Holding her left arm in an angle of ninety degrees, Franky pulled the hem of her shirt up, before gently guiding her left elbow out of it. Franky pulled the fabric over her head and let it fall down her right arm. She looked down her body and noticed an angry looking bruise high on her chest. Was it Gidge or Ferguson's? Franky sat down on her bed again, bringing the white shirt up to her face. She pulled at the seam with her teeth. After two attempts, one of the stitches came loose when the thread broke. Franky smiled at her own idea, as she continued to pick the sewing apart in her lap.

Franky threw the shirt on the ground and set her foot on the fabric. She bend down and grabbed the hem of it and yanked it upwards, resulting in a loud tearing sound. Franky continued pulling the cloth apart, sometimes turning it beneath her foot. When she looked at the rags of white cotton and felt that she had collected enough, Franky shifted her foot and tore it off. She took a few deep breaths as she examined the long scrap in her hands. At some places the rag was a little wider than others, but it was going to have to make do. With the help of her right hand and at times clamping the rag between her left arm and her lap, Franky created a makeshift bandage around her arm. She pulled the fabric tight with every circle she wrapped around the injured limb.

Franky managed to tightly bandage the arm from just below the elbow all the way up to her wrist. She gritted her teeth as the ache shot through her entire body; obviously there would not be any gain without the pain here. She carefully tied the loose end of the rag off by tugging it underneath the tight scrap around her wrist. Maybe she should leave the shower be for today and lay low.

Franky slipped into a blue sleeveless shirt and kicked the white leftover cloth in the space underneath the bed. She would ask for a new one later. She then grabbed her teal sweater and pulled it over her head. Since her vest had some very bad blood stains in them and she had yet to trade that one in too, she was going to have to make do wearing that this morning. Franky carefully felt her left arm and was happy to establish that it did feel a bit better now that it was protected by a few layers of tight cotton. Hopefully her hand would feel better soon too.

The grey pajama pants were exchanged for the teal uniform one and then the fight started of tying the shoelaces of your gym shoes with only one hand. Franky was pretty fed up with all the hassle when she heard the sound of all the other inmates bustling around outside her cell. She was taking too long. Franky decided to open her cell door so that no one could get suspicious about things that were not even going on.

Franky grabbed her eye shadow from the platform next to the sink and looked at herself in the reflecting plate. She was not going to be able to do her hair in a ponytail today, so she was just going to comb through it with her fingers and leave it down. Franky opened the container of eye shadow and sighed. She had to learn to speed up her morning routine with only half of the amount of hands to make light work with.

-x-

Franky had not yet been assigned a place to work at and neither was she looking forward to it. Yes, she had once been in charge of the kitchen here, because – despite Mike Pennisi's onscreen drama directed at her – she really did have a talent and a passion for cooking. However, she was not looking forward to be thrust right into the middle of Tina's obvious drug cartel. And now even Kim Chang had gotten involved. Franky had truly misjudged her; she thought she would have been capable of so much more.

The other option would be working at laundry, but… Franky paced around the corner and into the launderette, making every single inmate look up at the sound of her gym shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Franky's eyes automatically searched out the person behind the steam press. No, she would keep clashing with Kaz. The rivalry between Franky and Kaz was different than the one that she had experienced with Jacqueline. Kaz was actually smart, but her method to solve problems without the use of violence was slowly diminishing her popularity. The prisoners were like little kids; they felt like could get away with everything, because there wouldn't be any repercussions anyway. Of course, none of them were here because they had obliged so willingly when the law had told them 'no'… Her reigning days were close to being over.

Kaz lowered the steam press so that the view between the two of them was clear – apart for the steam rising up from the sheet she was ironing underneath. Her jaw was locked and if eyes could shoot daggers, than Franky would have more to worry about than just her arm. Franky held up both her hands in the air as a sign of peace; one of them holding her bloodied teal vest. "Don't worry; I'm only here to drop off one item and take back two." She cocked her head to the side as she dropped her vest in a large yellow tub which Franky remembered stood there solely for inmates to drop there impersonalized dirty clothing in. Prisoners who wore their own underwear and pajamas had all of them labeled and these were to be left in separate baskets. "You've got beggars and you've got takers. I'm definitely the latter." Franky winked before closing in to a pile of freshly folded clean white shirts until someone from an unexpected direction spoke up.

"That's not how things work around here anymore, Doyle." Franky turned herself around a full one-eighty degrees to see Miss Miles lean against the walls, the look of extreme boredom gracing her features. She had not changed one bit. "After a couple of idiots in D-block used their own laundry to twist ropes and try to off themselves with it, everything now needs to be logged. A prisoner can only have one of each." The way she versed the words, sounded as if she was just as annoyed with the rules as Franky was. It was probably another one of these decisions made by staff that overruled correction officer's working experience. Still, this was Smiles! If there was one guard who was willing to bend the rules a little—

"Oi, oi, oi!" Both Miss Miles and Franky were distracted by the loud sound coming from the folding table. "So the old Franky is back, eh?" It was Sue 'Boomer' Jenkins, who was apparently fighting to contain her excitement. She was smiling, no… beaming as she pointed to Franky's direction. "Look at her makeup! And her hair!" Franky was not too sure whether it was a good thing that her struggling to get herself ready for the day with one arm is Boomer's recounting of what she looked like during her previous stay without any injuries. All she had been able to do with her hair is to comb the knots out of it, after spending most of the night tossing and turning. Not only did she not have any stuff to style it with yet, the time struggle had done her in as well.

Yes, living with Bridget Westfall and working fulltime had tamed her in the way that she strayed from violence, using her words rather than threats to solve arguments. Her days now had a pattern, started by having breakfast together with candles lighting the room as well as her heart and ended by getting into bed with her girlfriend. Franky knew that when she translated all of this to prisoner vocabulary, she would be considered 'weak' at best. She was fucking vulnerable. "Woo! Spread the word!" Franky yelled in reply to Boomer, raising her arms up in the air. She noticed how Kaz looked at her disapprovingly from across the room. Franky winked at her defiantly before turning attention back to Miss Miles. She did not look amused one bit. "I'm sorry, but I lost my shirt during an accident yesterday. You can just ask the Freak or Miss What's-her-name behind the steam press. They were there too."

"My name is Kaz!"

Franky yanked her head back. "So I've read! Your ass was all over the papers once!" Kaz's face fell and she released the steam press. "You were Vinnie Holt's personal whore, like what… four years ago? Up until the day he keeled over because of that old ticker of his and the weight of being stuck with you wore him down!" Kaz folded her arms in front of her. "Yeah, I don't keep old news, so the details tend to slip my mind. Did you get a nice retirement fund out of his estate or were you passed over by any other next of kin?"

"Enough, Doyle!" The blonde correction's officer stepped in. "I will not have you disturb the other inmates' work. Go get yourself a vest and then go back to your unit or you're risking getting a charge."

"But I need a white shirt as well!"

"And I need a hot date with Patrick Dempsey, but instead I'm just standing here arguing with you." Miss Miles stated matter-of-factly. Franky feigned an amused smile. Linda was one of her favorite guards. Not because she could so easily be bribed into doing anything, but she could verse sarcasm in such a way that it could be a challenge for strangers to tell whenever she was kidding. Maybe it was the result of her gambling addiction, but she had perfected her poker face. Franky was certain that she had more potential as a standup comedian than she did as a corrections officer.

Miss Miles turned herself around and dislodged a key ring from her belt. As the sounds of a dozen keys rattling against each other while they were being searched for a single right one reached Franky's ear, she turned on her heels, looking around to see who were now the lucky ones to be working here. She sadly had to come to the conclusion that she still recognized most of the inmates here. Most faces she did not recognize all belonged to Kaz's crew. As soon as she looked over to the table where Doreen, Liz and Boomer were folding laundry, she noticed that all three of them were secretly staring at her, quickly looking away when they noticed Franky glancing back at them. Franky forced her vision elsewhere as well, while she waited impatiently for Smiles to fucking finally open the locked closet.

Once she finally succeeded, she took out a large grey binder from the top shelf and opened it up on an empty spot on the table to her right. Franky watched as she grabbed the side tab which had a large D written on it with a black marker. As Miles skimmed the lines for Franky's name, Franky raised an eyebrow at the difficult schedule that was scribbled all over the place. It had the prisoner's name in the first column, which was the only thing that made sense. After that, there were very tiny spaces where they had to log the different clothing items, the prisoner's sizes and the dates they received or returned an item. Franky had always known that guards were not the smartest people, but this definitely confirmed it. Miles grabbed a pen from her pocket and started jotting down her information after finding Franky's name at the very bottom of the page. "Go see if anyone has a vest in your size somewhere, Doyle."

"But how am I supposed to hand in a shirt when I threw it out after it got ripped to shreds in the yard?"

Miss Miles sighed at her in frustration. "Then you better go dumpster dive for the scraps." Franky looked at her incredulously. "Really, Doyle. I'm not in the mood. Not today."

Franky let out a large sigh before turning her back to Miss Miles. Her eyes were automatically drawn to the clock on the wall. That's it! Franky quickly glanced back over her shoulder to see Miles still filling out that stupid paperwork. This system was so flawed that she could easily sneak in at lunch time to grab a shirt from one of the piles that inmates were stacking up in front of them. Franky glimpsed at the clock one last time before walking in the direction of her former H-block inmates. In just half an hour, lunch would be served in the cafeteria. Most guards would just leave the door unlocked in the meanwhile, because the women were required back to work in the launderette right afterwards anyway.

The brunette walked very slowly to the table where Liz grabbed a stack of teal vests and shoved them to the side of the table. Meanwhile, Kaz was following Franky's movements very intently with her eyes. Franky held her glare, completely forgetting about her surroundings. If Kaz was so intrigued or threatened by her, than Franky might as well show that it did nothing for her. Kaz's position of a pacifist top dog was obviously a ridiculous one in a place like prison. A part of Franky liked the idea that she had someone to verbally spar with besides Ferguson and her sick mind games. Even though she was easily angered, besides maybe insult someone, she would do absolutely nothing to harm another woman. Maybe Boomer was right; if the timing was right, she could teach Kaz some lessons after all. What the fuck did it all matter anyway if she was to be convicted for twenty to twenty-five years? By now she probably pushed Gidge away far enough to –

"Here," the compassionate voice of Liz managed to stop her train of thoughts. Franky felt how a soft fabric grazed the skin of her hands and she looked down to see how the peer worker offered to hand her a clean teal vest. Automatically, Franky reached out her arms to receive it, but much to her dismay, only her right hand would open. Her left hand did nothing. Liz did not seem to notice a thing and just placed the clothing in Franky's opened hand. Franky placed it over her left arm, so that she could check out the label. Liz had remembered her size!

"Thanks," Franky said, smiling weakly at Liz and greeting Boomer with a quick nod of the chin. Doreen just quickly looked up from the towels she was folding to take Franky in from top to bottom. Franky was too busy looking at the vest in her hand. Just days ago she still believed that she was in the blissful position of never having to wear one of these again. In the beginning, she often went shopping with Gidge. She carefully avoided anything that even remotely looked like teal. One time, Bridget had dug up a grocery bag that somehow stirred up a sense of terror in her every time she looked at it. When Bridget went to work a day later, Franky cut it up into tiny pieces and then hid it by dumping it in their garbage can, right before it was scheduled to be picked up. Its sudden disappearance had remained a mystery to Bridget up to this very day, although she probably reckoned that Franky must have had something to do with it. Fuck, she did not want to think of her anymore!

Franky was about to turn herself around and quickly head back to her unit, when she heard someone call out her name. "Franky." Her head snapped up. "I know you've got a lot on your mind, but just take it easy, alright?" Liz was leaning on the table, with one hand resting on the stack of neatly folded vests. "It might just help you settle back in more easily."

The eyes of Kaz were burning a hole through Franky's back. The young brunette did not have to look back to confirm that suspicion; that stupid steam press was much too quiet. Ever since she had entered the room, the sizzling and crackling sounds of the bed sheets being straightened under the pressure and heat, had pretty much come to a quiet stop. Franky narrowed her eyes at Liz. "Whatever…" and with that, she took off to quietly await lunch time in her cell.

-x-

Franky had the hood of her clean vest pulled over her head as she joined the group of inmates who were all heading towards the canteen for lunch. She carefully made sure that she was in the very back of the crowd. She literally kept her head down and avoided all eye contact with everybody as she followed the inmates who were now being forced to form pairs in order to fit through the narrow doors and passageways. In the very front was Officer McCartney, leading the herd with her key card that allowed them all access to the places where prisoners were not allowed to be after certain hours. There never was a guard at the end of the line.

The brunette cast a quick glance to the right, seeing nothing but an empty hallway. With a sharp turn, Franky left the group and quickly paced into the left passage that would lead her right back into the unlocked launderette. She kept her eyes transfixed on the floor to avoid making contact with anyone in any of the adjacent rooms. If she did not act too suspicious, than maybe people would not think much of it either. The only thing that could possibly betray her, were these pathetic cheap white gym shoes scrape the floor with high-pitched screeches. She could limit the noise by walking on her toes, but what prisoner would do that? A prisoner who was up to no good…

Franky had her hands tucked in the pockets of her vest and quickened her pace to the point where she was not yet running, but was obviously in a hurry. No one would really miss her at lunch; she had missed plenty of meals since her incarceration anyway. There were two types of people: those who would start eating during stressful periods and those who stopped. Franky had always been the latter. She would never show her duress to other people and come up with plenty of other excuses not to eat, but even though Franky did not want to admit it to herself, she knew that that was the reason why she could not bear herself to swallow anything nutritious at the moment. Her body just told her that she was full.

Franky was close to the door now. The white electronic block that required the swipe of an officer's keycard for a gate to unlock, showed a small green light. Yes! The doors were actually open! Franky lowered herself to the ground by bending her knees and pressing her side against the door. She carefully pushed herself up with her right hand against the door, throwing her head back in her neck as she peered through the glass in the door in an attempt to see inside without exposing herself.

"Doyle!"

"Oh, fuck!" Franky yanked herself back, looking at her finder with frightened eyes. "You gave me a fucking heart attack, mister J!" Her breathing was ragged and she felt how her knees were shaking as she straightened herself back up. She could have known that things were going much too easy.

The former deputy had his arms folded in front of his broad chest, analyzing her thoroughly as he skimmed her entire posture with his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Obviously I'm here to break in and get myself slotted," Franky replied, hoping that the truth sounded much too ridiculous to believe. She shrugged her shoulders and pulled her vest away from her body by pushing the hands in her pockets away from her sides. "What did _you_ think I was doing?"

"Something that did not have to do with having lunch," Will Jackson established, squinting his eyes at the young woman in front of him. "What's wrong with you, Doyle? I can tell that something is up. What is it?"

Franky felt scrutinized under his observing eye and rather than supported, she just felt cornered. What was he expecting from her? That she would open up like a flower and talk to him? "Psh," Franky laughed defiantly. "Stop projecting your own shit on me. They keep suspending you and you keep coming back." Franky shook her head. "So which one of us has got the real issues here?"

"What I mean to say is that I can tell you're not settling in as easily as you normally did. Why is that?" He only earned himself a frustrated sigh in return. "You have not filled in a single visitor request form or even just a phone number to be added to your call list, except for this one kid who is a mutual acquaintance from you and Ferguson. Messing with her is only going to affect your hearing negatively, Franky! Surely you have more people on the outside that you have reconnected with in that one year away from here. Don't you think it would do you good to see some of your friends? Or a close colleague from legal relief?"

Franky grunted in annoyance. "Ohh! If that was what I wanted, than I fucking would have handed these forms in, wouldn't I?"

"I'm just here to help, Doyle," Jackson threw his hands up in defeat. Franky was still the firecracker he knew her to be, but this time she was difficult in a whole different way. Where her actions were much more visible and on the surface during her previous sentence, she now seemed secretive and isolated. He was not sure which one was better. The women had previously looked up to Franky when she finished her high school diploma and then started studying law. Now he never saw her do anything productive at all anymore.

"Then you're doing a fucking bad job!" Franky sneered angrily, before trying to walk past him. He stopped her by grabbing her by the upper arm. She immediately tried to pull herself loose, but Jackson held on to her while making sure that he did not hurt her.

"Now listen! You are way too smart to self-destruct. You are actually too smart to even be in here. I'm scheduling you a visit with Miss Westfall first thing tomorrow." She made it clear enough to the corrections officer that he was not the one she was going to accept any help from. Since counseling sessions had seemed to benefit her so much the previous time, maybe they would just have to pull that same trick on her again now. If it only shed some light on her current state of mind, than that would already be major progress.

Much to his surprise, Franky's arm suddenly went limp in his hand and she stopped pulling away from him. "What? Like the previous two times they made me talk to her already?" Franky's stomach appeared to rest somewhere between her feet and the ground, but she ignored it. She leaned in towards Mister Jackson, trying to get in his face as much as possible. "I'm not saying a single word to that bitch." Franky kept her eyes focused on his, while she yanked her arm out of his hold. They remained looking at each other for a few more seconds until Franky turned her head back and walked off, leaving him to literally watch her back as she walked back into the direction of the cafeteria.

"Her name is Miss Westfall," Jackson called after her. Instead of making her way through the swing doors to where her peers were having lunch, she turned a sharp right to go back to her unit.

-x-

Franky rested her head against the pin board while she looked at her sad excuse of a window. She had been so sure of herself that she would never ever end up here again. The light that managed to filter between the three iron bars which boarded it shut were just enough to tell Franky the time of the day. She was squeezing the fingers of her left hand with those of her right. She had probably pulled her bandage too tight, as they felt rather numb. She was hoping that the same numbness would spread to her brain; she would give anything to spend the rest of her days in prison feeling like it is all a fog that would eventually just drift away. She never understood why people would use drugs, as it made you not just an idiot, but a dependent idiot. Now she was starting to see its appeal.

A rap knock against her doorpost pulled her out of her thoughts. She turned her head around to see someone dangle a white shirt in front of her. Franky looked up at the bearer of the item that she had previously so openly desired. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "Why?"

"It's a peace offering," the blonde entered Franky's cell without asking for permission and reached out her hand to Franky, holding the article out for her to grasp.

Franky turned her legs until both of her feet were on her bed, glancing from the shirt to the woman standing diagonally next to her. "What do you want from me?"

"It's simple," Kaz said, dropping the shirt on Franky's bed sheets when the brunette made no move to reach out and take it from her. "Vinnie Holt?" Franky cocked her head to the side and smiled in amusement, foreseeing what was coming next. "That's just one chapter of my life that does not need revisiting." Franky did nothing, but continued smiling at her. "Okay?"

Franky quickly weighed her options. She could take the shirt and not mention that embarrassing little piece of knowledge anymore. She could take the shirt and still bring it up every once and a while for her own amusement and then just wait to see what – if anything – would happen. Or, she could be stubborn and not pledge allegiance to the not-quite-the-force-to-be-reckoned-with that was Kaz Proctor. Franky was not quite sure which option would eventually grant her what privileges, but she really, _really_ could use that white shirt. "Okay." Franky promised. For now.

Kaz brought one hand up to her face and spat in it, before extending it into the direction of a very horrified Franky. "What the fuck?! No, I'm not shaking that hand with you." As if on cue, another figure turned up in front of Franky's cell.

"Doyle?"

The paralegal opened her mouth and widened her eyes in mock surprise. "Well, I'm popular today!"

"Go pack your stuff. We're moving you into H1." Both Franky and Kaz looked up at Mister Jackson in surprise.

"What? No! I told you when I was brought in here that I did not want to be in H1." Franky shook her head wildly and rested her arms on her knees. "I'm staying here. I'm not going."

Jackson was visibly annoyed with her. He placed his hands on the belt with his portaphone and pepper spray before resting his eyes on Franky again. She looked absolutely unimpressed with him. He then glanced over at H block's current top dog, who appeared to be standing innocently next to her, with a slight smirk grazing her lips. "Out, Proctor!" He ordered. Kaz pretended to be taken aback slightly as she leaned backwards a little, making a face that indicated she was about to rain a protest he did not care to hear, down on him. "Listen, the both of you! You can either do as I say or you will both be moved, but then it's to the slot."

"Alright! Just keep your pants on! You're a big boy!" Kaz remarked condescendingly, making her way out of Franky's cell right after 'accidentally' hitting Franky's shoulder as she barged right out without looking back at her. Franky had to bite back a grimace of pain as the impact had caused her left arm to fall off the knee where it had been resting on.

The brunette used her right hand to form a make-believe gun and pretended to fire it right at Kaz's back. Realization sunk in with her immediately after the signal and she dropped her hand in disbelief. "That's it!" Franky remarked in a daze. She looked back up at Mister Jackson who was now closing in on her, to get her to stand up with his help if she did not haul ass right now. "I now know what to look for!"

-x-

Bridget sighed as she entered the education center. She really wasn't looking forward to doing this session of group therapy - she just didn't feel like it. All she could think about was Franky. The look in her eyes. The feeling of her skin against her own. The taste of her lips. Her body and mind yearned for one person and one person only. She nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of the realization: even after everything that had happened between them, she still longed for Franky. Mindlessly she laid her clipboard on a cabinet and began placing chairs in a circle. The library was one of her favorite places in Wentworth - to the extent at which one could have a preference when it came to locations within a correctional facility. But, she wondered, how much of that preference had to do with the almost-kiss she had shared with Franky between the bookcases all those months ago? It had been so exciting; the chemistry and sexual tension between them had been palpable. All she had wanted to do was press her lips against Franky's, and kiss her until the need for oxygen would have forced them to separate. And God, how she wanted to do that now. Subconsciously, her gaze had shifted to the racks of books in question, the plastic chair in her hands completely forgotten. Suddenly a loud voice shook her out of her thoughts: "Hey Miss Westfall, do ya need a hand with those chairs? 'Cause I can help ya, if ya want." Bridget spun on her heels and saw Sue 'Boomer' Jenkins looking at her expectantly, Liz Birdsworth and Doreen Anderson trailing behind her. She forced herself to smile at the three inmates, and replied: "Yes, please, Boomer, thank you." Boomer's eyes lit up at the usage of her preferred nickname. That was the thing about Boomer, Bridget thought, she was a handful, but if you knew how to handle her, make her feel like she was contributing, she was one of the sweetest, most hardworking women you'd ever have the pleasure of coming across. Together the four women arranged the chairs for the session, as other inmates slowly began entering the library, ready for the group chat with Bridget.

"Hey Franky!" Boomer exclaimed enthusiastically, followed by a shushing noise from Liz. Bridget immediately followed Boomer's gaze. Franky was here? How could she possibly have overlooked the young brunette? When she finally spotted the cause of all of her heartache, she had to swallow a lump in her throat. No wonder she hadn't recognized her. Franky was sitting at the computer the furthest from the door, dressed in a prison-issued teal hoodie that she'd zipped all the way up. The moment Boomer yelled out Franky's name, the brunette pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, effectively shutting out the rest of Wentworth. Bridget wasn't going to let her hide this easily. Gently clearing her throat, she asked: "Franky, will you be joining us?" Bridget held her breath, waiting for the response.

"Nah." Franky focused her attention back onto the files and screen in front of her. Well, fuck. Of course not, but Bridget had had the tiniest glimmer of hope she would. Don't let your disappointment show. Focus on the matter at hand. The session.

"Alright ladies," she began, "thank you for joining me today. Now, last time we talked about what you wanted to do when you got out, yeah? Today I wanted to discuss what you expect from your loved ones when you do." Immediately the women sitting in the circle began talking through each other, yelling things at the same time. Laughing, Bridget raised her hands in front of her chest.

"Whoa, ladies, one at a time please!" The yelling quieted down to a soft murmur. "Who'd like to go first? Doreen?" The Aboriginal woman nodded.

"Um, well, when I get out I hope I can move to Perth to be with Nash and Joshie..." Her face lit up at the mention of her son. Bridget really had felt sorry for the woman when she'd felt forced to let him go with his father. Doreen had learnt and grown a lot during her time at Wentworth. The once irresponsible, childish girl had made way for a mature, playful mother. She really did hope everything would work out for her.

"...and that we'll just grow old together happily. I don't need much. Just my boys, and I don't want to ask too much of him," Doreen finished. Bridget smiled, and confirmed: "Exactly. As I'm sure all of you know, having someone out there looking out for you and your best interests can make or break your parole. At the same time you can't expect the world from people, especially if they haven't seen you for a while. They may have moved on, or may not want to help you. And as much as that may hurt, you'll have to do most of the work on your own. It's your parole, not theirs." Most of the women nodded in understanding and realization. "Would anyone like to add anything to that?" Liz raised her hand, and Bridget nodded towards her.

"Yeah, I, uh, I really felt that when I got out on parole. My kids, they were pretty angry with me. Can't blame them, really. But I couldn't see them, and that hurt, and I still really depended on others and I messed it up. But I know that now," she explained.

"Well I'm gonna be with Daz, and, and it's gonna be great and hot!" Boomer interjected. At her statement, the circle of women collectively groaned.

"What?" Boomer asked incredulously. "It will!"

-x-

Franky had managed to find herself a good hiding spot in the library, where she could study her case in all silence. She had all of her folders spread out on the table in front of her. She had logged into a computer as well, but there was not much for her to find there without internet. Instead, she had sought refuge in books about forensic science and criminology. There was something that the cops were overlooking; that was the only explanation for her to be suspected and incarcerated in here, for a crime she did not look commit. Meanwhile, their tunnel vision would lead them to misinterpret evidence or overlook things so that they could line up all their pieces into a convincing case against her. Franky had valued her freedom too much now to just stand aside and await a jury's opinion of what that bitch detective would feed them. There was more to firing a gun than leaving some of your DNA on its handle.

The young brunette was quickly skimming some pages about forensic evidence that one would expect to encounter on perpetrators or crime scenes where such violence had occurred. There were a lot of mentions of gunshot wound patterns and all kinds of equipment that could be used to identify the presence of residue. All of that was of no help to Franky. The files which she had received did include an autopsy report and some preliminary hypotheses of the crime scene investigators, but no pictures which would have helped to visualize things for Franky. All she knew was that he was killed inside of his house. She had never even looked up interviews or pictures of Pennisi that were taken there in better times, or rather his 'alive times'… Let alone that she had ever even set foot in his large condo! Now, what room was he found in again?

The sound of chairs scraping on the floor as someone pulled them backwards distracted Franky from her reading. Looking into the direction where the sound resonated from, she saw Bridget Westfall – while seemingly lost in thoughts of her own – gather empty chairs to form a circle with. "Oh fuck!" Franky whispered inaudibly to herself. Did she throw one of these useless group therapy sessions on this day? At this hour? Franky looked at the computer screen to make a mental note of the time, to ensure that she would never let it come to this again. There was no point in collecting all her stuff and making a run for it now; there was no one else in the library yet. It would give Gidge the full opportunity to start a conversation or attempt to drag her in for a hug or a kiss again.

Franky shook her head and remained quietly seated as far away as she could from the psychologist. Any other person would have long understood to keep the fuck away from her, but Bridget had said so herself that despite Franky's attempt at a sexual or physical altercation with her, she still did not agree to keep her distance. Prison was just a very bad place for romantic feelings as it made you a liability; any rivals would use your weak spot to their own advantage and Gidge did not seem to want to get through her thick head that it would be more than just her job at risk.

As if on cue, the doors opened and from the corner of her eyes, Franky could see several of her new H-block inmates enter the library with a lot of noise. She sighed in relief and forced her eyes back to the papers in front of her. All right, on with that gunshot residue. While the paralegal continued her reading, she registered the voices that were filling this room. Doreen, Boomer, Liz, some other inmates... but not that one voice that you would expect to hear during a therapy session. Franky quickly glanced over her shoulder to see her girlfriend stare off into nothingness between the bookshelves, leaning on two plastic chairs. She seemed completely oblivious to all the noise and bustling of the inmates collecting behind her. Fuck! Just how much had Franky hurt her? She had stopped walking – no, moving altogether and the energy which had captured and fully enraptured Franky in her orbit, was way down.

Franky followed her gaze to the spot between the racks of books where she had first touched Gidge's lips. It had only been with her thumb, but it had held the promise of so much more. A promise which she followed through on immediately upon her release. The brunette had to pry her eyes away from the beautiful woman. She was extremely concerned and if she could feel it by the muscles of her face, than it would be even more visible to others in the room who could mean harm. Again, that gunshot residue…

"Hey Miss Westfall, do you need a hand with those chairs? 'Cause I can help you, if you want…" Franky's head automatically shot in the direction of the group in the front of the library. Boomer, you fucking hero! Franky was pleasantly surprised; Boomer taking initiative for something she was not specifically requested to help with was not something that occurred often. Maybe some things had changed for the better during her absence. Franky could not help the very small smile that formed on her face. Just say yes, Gidge! Let her help you out!

The blonde turned herself around to face Boomer, so Franky found herself looking at her back. There was not a single spot left on the psychologist's body which Franky had not explored with her hands, her lips, her tongue – "Yes please, Boomer. Thank you." Grateful for Boomer as well as Bridget's appreciative character, Franky quickly turned away again. She would leave along with the group. Hopefully she could blend in with the other teal-suited thin girls who were now in the room.

The amount of women who showed up for this session was much larger than it had ever been during Franky's previous stay. The women had to collect chairs from the computer tables in order to offer all willing participants a seat. When Boomer pulled a chair away from a computer that was not being used on the side of the room where Franky was seated, the woman's face lit up. "Hey Franky!" The enthusiasm on the find of her beloved friend was very evident in her voice and the olive-green eyed brunette would have rewarded that with an equally happy smile of her own in any other circumstance.

"Ssh!" Came from someone else in the room. Franky could easily picture the hand sign that Boomer made at the person who shushed her.

Hoping that Gidge had not heard Boomer's clueless exclamation of her name, Franky quickly pulled the hood of her vest over her head. If she was lucky, her cover was not blown yet. She did not dare to look in the psychologist's direction to assess how much of an audience – or more specifically who was in it – that Boomer had attracted. She bend her neck above her forensics book, so that she could cover the side of her face with her arm, as she rested her elbow on the table and tangled her hand in her hair in attempt to brush a few loose strands underneath the hood. Sadly, it was her left side that was exposed to the group and Franky needed help from her right hand to position her left. She heard a woman clearing her throat and immediately recognized it as not just belonging to any woman, but to her own girl. Good, hopefully the shush was merely intended to get everyone quiet so that Bridget could start the session.

"Franky, will you be joining us?" Never the fuck mind. Boomer had effectively revealed her presence to the one person Franky was trying so hard to stay hidden from. There was no way Bridget was going to let her out of the room without a talk.

"Nah," Franky answered without offering any additional explanation. She would not have a clue what to say. Of course she did not even know what today's subject was, but as a general rule, Franky hated talking about herself. Even to Gidge. She opened up to her as a necessary evil. When you live together because you're romantically- and then become domestically involved, there are just certain things or stories that you cannot hide from your partner forever. Franky's eyes dropped down to the notebook where she had been scribbling on. All it said was: _Murder weapon: gun. Gunshot (potential) evidence: gunshot residue?_

The session had started, apparently. The library was once again enveloped in the same silence that comforted Franky upon her entrance. The only sounds that permeated the air were the occasional turning of pages from Franky's documents and her book or the voice of the brilliant forensic psychologist addressing the other women in the room. Franky only picked up fragments of the session as she tried to finally pay attention to what she had come here to study: this - now quickly becoming boring – forensic evidence called gunshot residue.

"Now, last time we talked about what you wanted to do when you got out, yeah? Today I wanted to discuss what you expect from your loved ones when you do." Franky shook her head inwardly. Since chances were that she would not get out of here until twenty to twenty-five years right now, this was one thing she did not need to worry about. She was going to die alone in a halfway house somewhere. Legal relief was never going to take her back now, so if she was lucky enough, she could work as a chef in a sleazy restaurant. Hidden in a kitchen with minimum human contact to avoid any more casualties.

Franky read: 'After firing a gun, discharge residue is deposited on the hands and clothing of its user. This residue consists of burnt and unburnt particles from several materials, such as from a(n explosive) detonator or trigger, bullet fragments, a propellant, a cartridge case and the firearm. Gunshot residue is often abbreviated to GSR and is a common term used by crime scene investigators, forensic specialists and law enforcement. In forensic research, a person's clothing and skin is tested for GSR to determine whether they used or were near a gun when it was discharged.'

Franky sat up straight and thought to herself. Upon her incarceration, her hands were never tested! When she was asked for her DNA, they never questioned her about her clothing! Franky looked at her hands. By now she had showered and washed them at least a dozen times, so it was too late to have them tested. She decided to write it down either way: _Skin of hands never tested for GSR. DNA donated voluntarily._ But what about her clothing? What day was he killed? At what time? Franky frenziedly searched through the papers which summarized the crime scene findings and the conclusion of the medical examiner. Reading its estimated time of death, Franky sat back in a daze. She wore the same outfit to work on the day he was killed and the following day when she was arrested. She had not found the time to wash it as she was still adjusting to her new position at Legal Relief. Gidge's task was to do the ironing, which Franky despised as it reminded her too much of the steam press in this shithole. _Call lawyer; have incarceration clothes sent to the police for GSR testing._ Unbelievable. Did she have to have to analyze her own case and do all the work for the professionals who got paid for this shit? And what about her former paralegal colleague? Even though she worked pro bono, she had way more experience than Franky did! If she herself could recognize the flaws and shortfalls, surely she must have had alarm bells go off in her head! What the fuck was going on?!

"…you can't expect the world from people, especially if they haven't seen you for a while. They may have moved on or may not want to help you," Franky heard her girlfriend say to the women. You should, Gidge. You should move on. Even if Franky was found not guilty, the young woman had definitely caused some irrepairable and irreversible damage to their relationship. She was such a disappointment. She could see the pain that she had inflicted written on Bridget's face, when she was mindlessly making a circle of chairs. "And as much as that may hurt, you'll have to do most of the work on your own." The brunette avoided looking over at her girl in the sphere of chairs, out of fear for locking eyes with her. Lord knows what she would read in the keys to her soul this time. It made her absolutely nauseous and Franky was glad that she had skipped her meals today.

'A negative GSR result means that the suspect was not near to the discharged gun or near but not close enough for the residue to land on them or that the GSR has simply worn off of them. GSR only stays on the hands of a living person for four to six hours. The residue is also easily transferred, for example by wiping the skin off or by shoving the hands in a pocket. There are, however, other indicators that may prove that a specific firearm was used, which do not include the presence of gunshot residue. DNA or fingerprints may be found on the trigger of the gun. The trigger is usually easier to wipe clean than the handle of a gun, because the latter may have a rough surface with indentations that may trap DNA particles. Trigger fingerprints are usually partials, but because force needs to be applied in order for the firearm to discharge, it is usually a very clear one. If fingerprints or DNA found on the trigger belong to multiple people, the clearest fingerprint is typically the last person to hold or to fire it. Furthermore, inexperienced or spur-of-the-moment shooters are often unfamiliar with or forget the recoil effect, which is the backward movement of a gun that occurs right after discharge. This can result to injury to the forehead, eye or skin lesions of the hand.'

 _Handled the gun, never touched nor pulled trigger. Check for DNA/prints, compare to mine. Results are negative._ Franky felt her head with her right hand before doing another quick lookover of both of her hands. _Never fired a gun. Never heard of recoil. Examine hands and head; no injuries. Did not fire gun! Did not kill Pennisi!_

"Hi," a warm voice sounded next to Franky, pulling her concentration away from her notes. Knowing exactly who the melodiously toned speech belonged to, the hard worker hesitated to look up, but found herself unable to stop the urge to do exactly that. Franky sighed audibly as she turned herself away from the computer so that she could properly face the woman standing before her. She quickly peeked behind the psychologist's body to see where all her peers had gone. The circle of plastic chairs had remained identical behind her, except they were all empty now. Franky raised a confused eyebrow. How come she did not hear them leave? No matter how concentrated she was, she had taught herself to always remain aware of her surroundings, especially when it changed. Bridget had her arms folded across her chest while she carefully turned her upper body sideways so that she could follow her love's intense look at something behind her. "Is there a problem?"

Frankly quickly looked Bridget up and down, mapping all of her exposed skin for any disruptions, bruises and cuts. Anything that had not been there before she had cornered the blonde like an animal, would rise an immediate panic out of her. Bridget was wearing long sleeves and a jacket that did not reveal much. Franky honestly hoped that her arm was broken; it was unfair if she herself was the one to escape the situation unscathed. Franky grasped the pen from her notebook and started ticking it on the paper nervously, dangling the ballpoint between her thumb and middle finger. "As a matter of fact, there is."

Bridget had originally approached her with a soft smile, but it quickly gave way for a concerned look. She slightly relaxed her jaw, separating her lips. "Are you okay?"

"Why did you have me move back into H1?"

Bridget unfolded her arms and dropped them to her sides. "Franky, I don't even know anything about that! I thought you were still in the cell next to Kaz's…," she trailed off with a single shake of her head. "If I did, if I _had_ known, I would have told you. I understand that returning here is confronting. It must be difficult for you." She sounded so calm, speaking in a very low volume so that no one besides them could hear. Franky felt torn. Gidge was obviously telling the truth and she seemed just as surprised as Franky had been when she was instructed to move to a different wing. A part of her just wanted to grab the woman by the waist and pull her between the bookcases for a forbidden, passionate kiss, that would linger on her lips for as long as it would take for her to be back home with her beautiful blonde again. The rational part of her brain reminded her that she had sexually assaulted her and for that, she craved punishment more than being forgiven. Franky did not deserve this; Franky did not deserve her.

"Gidge, we're over. I don't want you to talk to me. I don't want you to look at me. I don't want to be invited to any of your sessions." Franky got up from her chair and closed in on Bridget's personal space. Franky was a lot taller than Bridget, but Bridget was wearing twelve centimeter heels while Franky was stuck in these awful flat gym shoes. In light of their last encounter, she had expected Gidge to at least take a few steps back to ensure her own safety and not let Franky corner her anymore. She had seen the fear in the psychologist's eyes and that had been very real. The power that she had conjured up to push Franky off of her when she no longer could pull her arms out Franky's death grip anymore, had to be fueled by pure adrenalin. Physically, Bridget just was not as strong as she was.

But Bridget did not move an inch. She just stood there, only moving her head to tilt it back so that she could look up and into Franky's eyes. "No, we're not." Gidget answered confidently. "I understand that you feel the need to retract into your private cocoon so that you can change back to the old Franky. I even understand that you don't want me there, because the old Franky did not form emotional attachments and couldn't commit romantically. I'm not going to let you. You are not that Franky anymore. You need to find yourself and your new balance again amidst this prison turmoil and I can help you with that!"

Franky felt her breathing quicken and a tension started to build inside of her. It felt as if someone was tightening her strings like a guitar, using words to see what sounds she was going to produce and not stopping until she would finally produce the desired outcome. It made her extremely restless. "What is it that you want from me?" Unconsciously, she kept switching her weight from one leg to another, never breaking eye contact with the psychologist.

"I want you to love yourself the way that you love me. The way that I love you."

If Franky had been a guitar, than she was currently being strummed the wrong way. She narrowed her eyes and leaned in with her face so close to Bridget's that their noses were almost touching. The psychologist did not even flinch, even though Franky looked threatening enough. "You can quit the bullshit now, Gidge. You don't care for me. The only reason why you made yourself believe that you're gay, is because you've been afraid of men ever since you were raped!" This blow landed, Franky could tell. Bridget's eyes were welling up with tears, but not a single tear spilled.

"Is that what you think? That I only moved you into my house, shared a bed and a life with you, made love with and to you because I was afraid of men? That I only occupied myself with you, so I would not have to end up with a man?" Bridget held Franky's eyes, but the young woman had to break her gaze and stared at the ground instead. Her accusations sounded ridiculous, but it was Gidge's glistening, watery eyes that were really doing her in. "What about you? Am I your backup plan?"

Franky head snapped back up. "Nah! I've had sex with men plenty of times, you know that!" In that year that they domestically shared together, such stories had come up. She had never particularly enjoyed having sex with men, but she had not known what other options were out there until she landed in bed with a woman. "I was never raped. It's just who I am!"

"And I'm not?!"

Franky turned herself sideways, so that she could lean with her upper legs against the computer table while looking at the blonde in disbelief. "Go on, then! Deny that you were ever raped!"

Bridget opened her mouth to say something, but then she decided against it. She turned her head towards the book cases and Franky could tell that she was trying to get her emotions under control. The stunning blonde never blurted things out of nowhere if it could leave destruction in its wake. "Franky…," she said, her voice trailing off as she collected her thoughts and put them into intelligible words. "You make a huge issue of needing me to believe that you did not kill Pennisi, yet you immediately fall victim to Ferguson's bloody gossip! She will do anything to make you miserable, to make us miserable! Do not give her that satisfaction, baby."

"How do you know it's Ferguson? It could be any—"

"Because she literally harassed me about it while I was psychologically evaluating her one day," Bridget admitted. "I had to ask her questions to fill in some forms and then she suddenly decided she deserved to ask some of her own as well," Bridget reached out for Franky's hand, enclosing the brunette's fingers in the palm of her hand. "Then she sprung the question on me if I had ever been raped."

"What did you say?"

Bridget stroked the skin of Franky's fingers with her thumb. "I didn't say anything, but she obviously interpreted my refusal for an answer as an answer as well." Franky pulled her hand out of the blonde's gentle hold.

"Why didn't you just say 'no'?"

"Because then I _would_ have given her an answer," Franky watched Bridget cross her arms in front of her body again. "And my personal life – past, present or future – whatever happened or didn't happen is of no business to her!" It felt awkward. Normally when they discussed heavy matter such as this, they would hold each other on the couch or cuddle up in bed. They were mere centimeters apart from each other, but the distance felt like they were miles away from the other. "I'm not any different from you, Franky. You are attracted to women only and so am I. That's not something that can be conditioned or influenced. You know that."

Images of her pulling the blonde in for a kiss, the sounds Gidge made when Franky touched her, the feel of her girlfriend's naked skin against her own were plaguing Franky's mind. If these GSR investigations were overturned and the jury would find her guilty, she would never be able to experience any of that anymore. She was better off forgetting all about it. "Don't you think I was engaged enough?"

"Huh?"

"Do you remember the first time I made love to you? You were so nervous and seemed perfectly content to never let me touch you. If I was so traumatized, then I never would have pushed you, Franky. We probably wouldn't have had sex at all." The brunette listened silently, unsure of what to do or say. "You have initiated sex, as have I. You have received, as have I." Bridget kept silent for a few seconds when she heard footsteps shuffling near the entrance of the library. She was standing much too close to an inmate and this conversation was much too delicate to reach outsider's ears. "And I think it's safe to assume that at more than one time, we both enjoyed it. That first time, do you still remember what you said?"

Franky was staring at the floor again, shuffling her foot from side to side as she thought nervously. "That was just in the heat of the moment. I didn't mean it."

"I don't believe that."

"So what's your point?"

"My point is that I'm not leaving you. I want to fight for you. Or with you!" Franky could see Gidge's expression of despair from the corner of her eye. She was basically begging the young woman to look at her, but Franky felt shattered. What else did she have to do to get her to leave her alone? Disappointing her did not work. Scaring the shit out of her still had her walk up to her offender to try and mend things. What the actual fuck was this warped sense of reality?

The brunette sighed audibly as she threw her head back in her neck. "Girls can rape girls as well, you know?" Addressing what had transpired between them was difficult for Franky. She was not proud of what she did. She was embarrassed and she had caused very significant grief to the one person she had come to love so intimately. The paralegal felt conflicted by her fight or flight response. Even just standing here with Gidge and smelling her subtle perfume was enough to make her come undone. She needed to stay angry, but she was losing her balance to hang on to that emotion. There was a side of her that just wanted to fly into the woman's arms, apologize and cry her heart out like a fucking weakling. She, who had never believed in apologies, because what was the point of saying sorry if you were just going to hurt that same person again at a later point? For Gidge's safety and happiness, there was only one right thing Franky could do: take her own losses in stride and let her girlfriend go.

"I know," Bridget spoke softly. "But you're not one of them."

Franky roughly pushed herself away from the table. "Do you want to have another go then, huh? A repeat of what happened in my cell, do you?" Her eyes were widened, her pupils quickly moving as searched Gidget's face for any signs of fear or anguish, but the psychologist revealed absolutely nothing.

"You can't threaten me, Franky," she spoke empathetically. "That part of you is long gone. What you're giving me right now is nothing but an act. You can tear my clothes up and you can try to touch me in places I do not consent to, but that is not who you are. And I know."

Franky grunted and slammed one of the book racks with an open hand. The noise it produced was far louder than you would expect without any shelves collapsing or books falling to ground. "You don't know shit! And you'd better get the fuck out right now, because I'm two seconds away from tearing this whole shithole apart!"

"It's okay to be angry, Franky! It's okay to be angry with me. I compromised you. I compromised the old Franky Doyle, who you are now so desperately seeking to harden you again. I get it," Franky had her back faced towards her, leaning against a book case with her right lower arm. She was biting on her lip to keep herself from crying and falling apart at the seams, in front of her girlfriend, in this library that was accessible to everyone in H-block. "The old Franky was fearless with nothing to lose. The old Franky couldn't love."

"I don't love you!" Franky exclaimed with a sob in her voice as she violently turned her body around to see the effects of the statement dawn on Bridget. It was difficult for Franky to see as she dropped her head in response and pushed herself away from the computer tables and ambled into Franky's direction. She slowly took one step at a time, carefully allowing Franky the time and opportunity to turn around, walk away or stop her without feeling endangered. Franky pressed her back against the side of a bookrack, but made no moves to avoid Bridget physically closing in on her. Once she was close enough to Franky's trembling body, she took both of Franky's hands in hers, holding them down between their bodies for no one else to see. Franky searched Bridget's face for any hint or sign of what she was going to do, as she herself felt powerless to stop it. This is what it meant when people claimed to be 'overpowered by their emotions'. She could not calm herself; her breathing would not slow down and all the muscles in her body felt like they contracted as she was literally shaking in front of the seemingly relaxed psychologist.

"But I always will."

Bridget did not literally add the words 'love you' to them, but Franky knew that that was exactly what she meant. For a few long seconds, she continued looking at the young brunette with her beautiful blue eyes and the corners of her mouth curved up in the sweetest smile. Franky felt a small squeeze in both of her hands, before Bridget turned herself towards the door and strode past her, looking like nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired between them.

Once the sound of the door shutting behind Bridget had reached Franky's ears, she felt the tears flood her cheeks, without her even realizing that she was crying. She was left to her own devices with a terrible pain in her arm and an equally hurting heart. Franky knew exactly which one of these two was damaged the most.

Her body completely betrayed her when her upper body started heaving; causing her to inhale in short, deep gasps and then expel the air from her lungs in fast and shaking gushes. Her knees started to buckle and Franky quickly made her way to a hidden place between the bookcases. She dropped down on her lower legs on the ground and covered her face with her hands. These fucking tears would not stop coming and Franky angrily wiped them off her face with the sleeves of her vest. Franky made sure not to make a sound as she broke down entirely in the sole company of the dusty old books surrounding her. Not even the best counselor in the world could fix her now.

-x-

Bridget sighed as she waited for the kettle to boil. Sessions with Joan Ferguson were exhausting. She had to be so careful when it came to speaking to the ex-governor - the woman noticed absolutely everything: every swallow, every tremor, and every slight hesitance, and she used them for her own benefit as much as she possibly could. Joan also had the frustrating habit of wanting to show how much smarter than everyone else she reckoned herself to be. She had demonstrated it again just now: the entire time she had been talking to Bridget, she had mirrored every single movement she had made, followed by a rocket barrage of plays on Bridget's feelings and yearning for Franky. That wasn't even the worst part though, she thought to herself. Joan telling Bridget her secret was safe with Vera, while perfectly aware Jake could hear everything she was saying - the nerve! If Jake started poking around and raising even more suspicion, they would be in some seriously deep shit. She knew Vera would keep her secret safe, but for Jake, keeping his mouth shut was not to his advantage. Best case scenario he would give her and Franky the benefit of the doubt, but a part of her knew that the probability of that happening was close to nothing.

"Is there enough in there for another cuppa?" Well that was just great, wasn't it? She turned to her side and smiled at Jake.

"There should be."

"So, Ferguson sees secrets and conspiracies everywhere, doesn't she?" Bridget's breath hitched in her throat and she nearly dropped the mug she was holding. Trying to seem confused, she replied with a soft: "Hmm?"

"She always thinks people are keeping secrets that she can use against them. Like just now," he commented as he swallowed a forkful of salad, "claiming stuff about you and the governor. She's just trying to mess with everyone." Bridget smiled at him.

"Yeah." Maybe he wasn't as smart as she thought he was - thank God. That meant one less thing to worry about.

-x-

Jake hummed to himself as he walked down the hallways of Wentworth. He had always preferred evening shifts to day ones, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the feeling of sovereignty, operating on a larger inmates-to-guards ratio after the majority of the staff left after dinner. He liked feeling in charge. He glanced into the cafeteria and saw Joan Ferguson in there by herself, mopping the floors. Perfect. Checking his surroundings to make sure no one was following him, he entered the room. Ferguson didn't look up at the sound of the doors opening and closing, but instead continued moving the mop in a zigzag pattern across the floor and asked: "Ah, Mister Stewart. To what do I owe this...immeasurable pleasure?" Jake felt a feeling of nervousness creep up at the woman's question. The superiority in her voice was obvious, and it made him uncomfortable. Joan Ferguson was one intelligent, cunning woman, and he had slowly but surely become all too aware of it.

"What is the secret Governor Bennett is keeping for Miss Westfall?" There was no point in dancing around the matter; it would only give Ferguson the space to play with him, and he was very tired of being her toy to mess with for her entertainment. Yet every time he thought he had her figured out, she managed to throw him for a loop again. It annoyed him to no end. Ferguson let out a low, amused chuckle.

"You are more patient than your semblance would divulge, waiting for the right moment to question me about my knowledge of the matter," she commented as she continued mopping the floors. Jake leant back against the wall, crossing his arms. There was nothing he could do to pressure into answering him; he was aware of that. And so was she. Suddenly Ferguson stopped sweeping the linoleum and looked him straight in the eyes.

"And why would I tell you what I know, hm?" Jake didn't like the self-satisfied glint in her eyes at all. She had him exactly where she wanted him. He'd walked straight into her trap, eyes open, just as she had expected him to, damn it!

"You wouldn't have told Miss Westfall that if you hadn't wanted me to overhear," he tried to counter, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

"It must have attracted even your attention that Miss Westfall has a certain...preference for some inmates over others."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He was genuinely confused now. What was the woman insinuating?

"You're a smart man. Or...above average at least. You will figure it out." She grasped the mop again and continued cleaning the floors. Just as Jake was about to press her for more information, his walkie-talkie crackled.

"Sierra 2, report to the Governor's office." He sighed and answered: "This is Sierra 2, understood." He glared at Ferguson as he left the cafeteria. Saved by the bell, Joan. For now.

-x-

Vera raised her fingertips to her temples as she watched Jake walk towards her office on the CCTV. What in the world did he think he was doing? Surely he would know better than to speak with Ferguson by himself - the woman used and abused every opportunity to mess with the staff members she possibly could; he knew this! She cleared her throat. How was she going to tell him off without disrupting what was going on between them? The knock at the door disturbed her thoughts. God, he was faster than she thought.

"Enter." Jake's face peeked around the corner, and he smiled at her. She felt the butterflies in her stomach.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked as she motioned for him to come in. She'd just have to ask him, right?

"Why were you talking to Ferguson by yourself in the cafeteria just now?" she asked him. Jake looked at her incredulously.

"What, are you watching me on the cameras now? I thought we had a mutual trust going on here, Vera." Vera felt her cheeks turn red at his statement. See, she should not have questioned him. How was she going to save the situation?

"I just, uh," she stammered, "I was just looking out for you. Ferguson is a force to be reckoned with, and I don't want you to get into trouble with her." Jake shook his head, smiling, and replied: "I'm a big boy, Vera; I can handle myself around inmates."

"Inmates, yes, but psychopathic ex-governors…" Vera muttered to herself. Suddenly she felt Jake's hands on her shoulders, massaging them gently. "Jake!" she scowled. "We said we'd keep private and business separate!" He just hummed in response, and planted a kiss on the small bit of accessible bare skin of her neck. She sighed as she felt the sensation travel through her body.

"Ferguson did mention something interesting," Jake murmured against her skin, letting his hands slide down to her hips. He was doing a very good job at distracting her, Vera decided.

"Did she?" she nearly sighed.

"She said you were keeping a secret for Bridget." Vera's mouth almost fell open at the announcement.

"She said I was doing what?" she asked as she turned around in his arms, raising an eyebrow.

"What is the secret?" he asked. Vera shook her head. Of course Ferguson would have dropped a bomb like that. Now that the Ombudsman had not worked, she had to figure out a different way to mess with Vera. Fucking with Bridget and Franky in the process of getting Vera demoted was just the cherry on top of the cake for the deranged woman. She sputtered: "That's - that's ridiculous. She's just trying to mess with your head." Jake pressed his lips together.

"No, I don't think so." He placed his hands back on her shoulders and applied some force downwards. "I thought we said we trusted each other, Vera," he added. Vera felt cornered. That damned woman!

"I…" she began, "I'm not in the position where I can say anything, Jake. I'm really sorry." Jake dropped his hands and his expression went cold.

"Good to know where we stand then, Governor." He turned on his heel and made his way towards the door.

"No, Jake, I…" Vera tried to stop him, but he had already left. She let herself drop onto her chair and closed her eyes. "Why do you have to make everything so incredibly difficult, Joan?" she asked the empty room.

-x-

Franky was sitting on the bed of her new cell in H1, resting her chin on top of her knees which she had drawn up to her chest. Boomer, Liz and Doreen had done their best to make her feel welcome by making her cups of tea and sharing their snacks and magazines with her, but she just wanted to be left alone. No, she did not want to be _left_ alone, she just wanted to be… somewhere else with other people whose lives were not contained within a few square meters by razor wire. She had her door closed and she was basically just waiting for the day to turn the night or for herself to fall asleep. Whichever came first was good enough for her.

Outside of her door, she could hear a party going on as the music was loud and there was the roaring chatter and laughter of the women in her block. Franky told herself that she did not like this music and she never danced anyway. Work was going to be assigned to her by Monday, but she had no idea what she would like to do. She still enjoyed cooking, but after her absence of a year, no one was going to allow her to step back up as the kitchen's leader. If she was going to work as one of Tina's helpers, one of them was going to end up with a chef knife in their carotid artery sooner rather than later. And it probably would not be Tina. Franky had yet to win a popularity contest here.

When her cell door suddenly opened with a very loud creek, Franky nearly fell off the bed as she was startled by the unexpected action. "Fuck, Allie! Have you ever heard of knocking? I could have been taking a sh—" Franky stopped midsentence when she finally looked up at the invader of her privacy. In the doorway stood Mister Jackson, holding a large box with a few transparent plastic bags lying on top of it. A bald guard of whom Franky did not know his name was holding the door open for him.

"Doyle," Mister Jackson greeted her, before stepping inside of her cell. Franky noticed that Boomer was curiously eyeing them from the other side of the shared space in their block. "Miss Westfall was kind enough to pick up some of your stuff from your room at the bedsit." He approached her with a whispering voice and gently placed the items at the foot of her bed. Franky just stared at the big box. Was that all of her clothing? Did Gidge just pack all of her stuff and move her out? Did she erase her from the quiet house she now had to come home to every night, all alone? They had lived together from the very first day when Franky was released from her previous stay at this prison, but Franky never accumulated much stuff. The constant relocating from one foster family to the next one had taught her better as a kid. It had become a habit which she still had not been able to shake. Not even with Bridget. "We processed them for you today, so that you no longer have to wear that disposable hospital underwear. We thought that couldn't be very comfortable, so…"

Franky could not say anything. She did not know what to think or what to feel. If this was Gidge moving on and letting go of her, _all_ of her, then she should be happy, right? That was what she wanted; she had made that clear to her lover several times in several ways, even using violence to prove how destructive them staying together would be. However, the thought of Gidge not just moving on but also moving on _to_ another girl, stirred emotions in her belly that she had never felt before. Flirting, having sex, commit to that one sexual partner for a limited amount of time until boredom or irritations set in, breaking up and then finding someone else to start the cycle with again, had always been a natural way of life to Franky. She never got hurt; she never grieved; she always made sure she never got emotionally attached. But now… although she realized that expecting Gidge to wait for her until her release in two decades was very selfish, she knew that having to watch her girlfriend hold hands with someone else would splinter her heart and soul beyond repair.

Officer Jackson stood in front of her bed, waiting for any type of response from her, but Franky just stared blankly at the parcels. She did not move, she did not open her mouth to speak, she did not even blink. The man looked at the brunette with a mixed expression of sympathy and incomprehension. "I reckon you might want to thank 'the bitch' when you see her. She lives on the other side of the town, you know?"

Oh, Franky knew, alright!

Jackson stressed the words that Franky had previously used to refer to the woman who even now continued to be so good to her. Her girlfriend who did not hold a grudge against her after a sexual attack, even when Bridget had warned her several times to stop it. A simple and understandable plea which Franky blatantly ignored so that she could make a statement. Or a warning. Or a threat. Why did Bridget hold her hands in the library? Why was she smiling at her? Why was she saying that she understood, when there was not much to understand, for fuck's sake!

"Doyle!" Will exclaimed to force Franky's attention on him. Her blank expression at the box was now transfixed on him. "You're a very smart girl. You have all the potential in the world to survive this and get back on your feet again. Being condescending towards the staff is not going to earn you the respect that you are looking for." He lowered his voice back to a soft and calm tone. "You know better than that. You _are_ better than that."

Franky looked away and shrugged her shoulders. "What's the point? I've got nothing left to lose."

"Yes, you do," Jackson spoke empathetically. "I know heartbreak when I see it." Franky yanked her head back in surprise. Who told him? He held her eyes for a silent moment before clearing his throat. "Whoever she is, she's lucky to have you, Franky." Jackson turned around and walked towards her door. He faced her one more time when he stood in her doorpost, reaching out with his hand to take the door from the other guard who had stood outside in the general area and waited patiently. "Hang on, Franky. Hang on for her."

Franky noticed how he gave his colleague a small nod before he took a few steps back and he closed the door again, enveloping the brunette in the silence and isolation that she seemed to prefer. Her eyes immediately dropped to the box and the plastic bags that Bridget had apparently put together for her. She stared at it for a few long minutes, nervously picking at the sheets of her bed as she tried to determine what would be inside them. The bags were see-through, but contained colors which Franky did not recognize as items that belonged to her. Maybe Gidge had made a mistake?

The brunette scooted herself towards the edge of the bed and sighed. Did she want to know? Then again, the guards have checked every single thing that's in there, holding every single piece of underwear in their gloved hands, making sure that nothing was sewn or glued in the garments. The panties with crotch areas that had an extra layer of fabric with an opening in the front and in the back used to be a popular space to hide contraband in. Franky grabbed the first bag and held it upside-down, spilling its contents all over her bed. Franky grabbed every single item in her hand to discover what everything was. None of the items in this bag were her own; she had never seen them at Bridget's house, but it also did not belong to stuff that she kept at the halfway house just for show in case her parole officers came to check if she honestly lived there.

The psychologist got her some moisturizer, which was something she never used, except for when her skin was dry after a swim in the saltwater beach or sometimes when her skin would break out during her period. There was a facial cleanser which she did use every night to take off her makeup and to unclog her pores from all the smog and other shit that you would find in downtown Melbourne, but this was not the brand she used. This one was way more expensive! Franky had to smile involuntarily. Gidge knew that she did not care enough about beauty to spend so much of her paycheck on something that you would put on your face, only to take it off again at the end of the day. There was a shower gel, shampoo and conditioner, some fancy tooth paste that had some magic three-in-one power, shaving cream that did not actually need shaving (as Franky liked to stay clean and groomed, but razor blades were not allowed in prison for obvious reasons) and body lotion which Franky never used because she simply was too impatient to apply that all over her body every day. None of the stuff came from labels which she usually used and they were very expensive! Why? The last few things in that bag were several varieties of deodorant, toothbrushes, a hair brush, a comb and several pallets of dark eye shadow and a couple of eyeliners. Franky collected the stuff in her hand as well as she could and then lined them up carefully on the sad excuse of a sink.

Franky grabbed the next bag and poured its contents on her bed as well. She raised an eyebrow. This bag consisted of all kinds of things that she was unfamiliar with as well. There were a couple of notebooks; two of them were lined, one was squared and another one just had empty pages. These were not cheap either, as all of them had hardcovers. There was a pencil case which was generously filled with all kinds of new pens and in several colors. Another metal case had pencils in all the colors of the rainbow. Bridget knew she did not sketch! That was Red's thing. Franky just liked to read. That was something Bridget had not forgotten though. There were several paperback books of Penguin's literary classic's series. Franky loved those. There were days where she had done nothing more than cuddle with her girlfriend, who would lie with her head in the young paralegal's lap and watch television, read magazines or highlight notes in photocopied psych reports of new or transferred inmates. Franky neatly placed her belongings – which also happened to be all new – on the shelves and the very little desk below it.

All that was left for her to open was that cardboard box. Franky slowly opened each flap and peered inside. What the fuck? Inside, there was a lot of underwear. New underwear! The brunette nearly believed that the officers had just messed up and delivered all that stuff to the wrong inmate, until she found some things that finally did look familiar. Franky picked up one of the total of eight sets of underwear and checked the sizes. The panties were a small size and the bra was her exact cup size. This had to be bought by a woman, definitely. Even though Franky preferred to wear dark colors at home – mostly influenced by Gidge, after she mentioned that she loved to see her girlfriend in black and red – all of these were in bright colors and half of these had almost neon colored bra straps. Perfect fit for the old Franky Doyle.

Then she finally reached items that she recognized. Franky carefully took out the five different tank tops. She delicately sat on the bed with them. These were not new; they were Bridget's. From the very first night that she stayed at the psychologist's house, she slipped one on underneath her sleep shirt. All of them were a little too baggy for her and a bit on the short side, but there was not a single item of clothing which Franky had felt more comfortable in. Its colors were rather simplistic, but Franky loved the way how she would fall asleep with the scent of Bridget's perfume encircling her like a blanket. By now, Bridget had long stopped wearing them, because Franky had hoarded them all. Still, Franky could not help herself as she brought her favorite one – a khaki colored one that consisted of a very flimsy material – up to her nose and inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes. The smell of the laundry detergent took her right back to that house where her favorite blonde was probably heating a microwave dinner by now. Tears automatically appeared on the corner of Franky's eyes and she quickly laid it down on the bed. She did not want to stain it with her dark makeup in case it would leak.

The brunette got up from her bed and decided to quickly empty the last contents from the box. There were new socks and some new sleep shirts, which she took out of the box and placed them in the open space underneath the bed. The pairs of sweatpants underneath the new clothes were her own, which was probably the case because Franky had trouble finding ones that fit her very slim posture along with her long legs. She would often have to make the choice between wearing pants that were much too wide to be comfortable or too short if she bought them to match her slim frame. Franky took all of them out one by one, smelling the soap on each of them. One of them had her pull the fabric as far away from her nose as her arm would let her. Through the tears, a smile forced its way to her face. Gidge used two different types of fabric softener, which could be divided into two groups: one of them was fucking rancid and the other one was not. Gidge knew exactly which one Franky preferred, but every once in a while she would add one of Franky's clothes with her own just to get a rise out of her. The first time that the brunette was forced to stay engulfed in that weird scent of a spice combined with a fruit and a fucking rosehip, Franky was nearly gagging on the couch. It was the first and only time she ruined dinner, because the overwhelming odor compromised Franky's ability to smell the meat grilling into a crisp, until she was finally alerted by the smoke detector. It made her psychologist laugh the entire day and Franky then vowed to never ever wear anything that had come into contact with that shit.

Franky wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her vest and continued to tidy everything up. All that was left in the box now, were a pair of white converse sneakers and a really, really old diary of hers. The young brunette dropped her shoes on the ground and sat back down on her now empty bed. It was a simple red notebook with a string attached to either side of the cover to tie it closed with. By now, parts of the red cover were faded into some yellow and pinkish stains. The corners of the booklet looked like they had been damaged, because of the dark brown and black smudges. The truth was that she took it everywhere years ago, up until the incident with Mike Pennisi. It had fallen into dirty puddles, was snatched from the hands of malicious people who threatened to set it on fire with their cigarette lighters and it had travelled with her from one sleazy and dirty apartment to the other. Why the fuck did Gidge pack this for her now? She had shown it to her, but the last time she wrote in it, must have been five or six years ago.

Franky flipped through the pages. It was so evident that her mood determined her handwriting! If her behavior was erratic and her review of the day all over the place without any structure, so was her handwriting. The days in which she had made herself believe that she was happy, her handwriting was girly with a lot of loops. Franky was already feeling down. Reading up on her chaotic and disappointing past, was definitely not going to make her feel better. She skipped to the last page that she had written, but immediately sensed that something was off. Yes, her handwriting had been unstable and at some times just barely readable, but this was just not hers. It was obvious that someone had tried very hard to make it look like it was. When Franky read the timestamp, she knew that it could not be her. It was the day _after_ she was incarcerated for throwing that burning oil on top of Pennisi. During her first stay, she did not even have access to her journal!

Franky frowned as she sat back against the pin board. This could be dangerous! Anyone could 'make' her confess this way and then turn her in. Prison was a bad place for heartfelt journals. She just decided to read it for now. If it was potentially incriminating, she could always find a way to dispose of it later.

' _I know that I can cook. I know that I can do better than most of these people around me. I need to keep it cool and count to ten more often.'_ What the fuck?! Where did this crap come from? She would never write anything like that! She never used her diary to reflect; she merely wanted to get her words out on paper, because notebooks would not and could not betray you. The trust she had lost in human kind at a very early age, was safely entrusted to a journal that could not leave her. And considering that she had it in her lap right now, proved that indeed it never did. _'The negativity that I experience at work is something that I do not want to take home with me and I constantly need to remind myself of that. I bought myself some new clothes. At work, I'm going to be the Francesca Doyle that I need to be to survive, in clothes that have no story yet. At home, I want to be me, without feeling threatened. That's where my real life is, where my story awaits me and I will not be judged for what I do at work.'_

Franky closed the booklet and threw it across her cell. This was so obviously Bridget's doing. And now all the correction officers have read this bullshit as well. If Smiles had been the one to check it, her 'story' was now for sale in the courtyard. The brunette took a few deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. So Gidge was giving her 'permission' to do what she needed to in here. She was going to 'wait' at home. She bit the inside of her lip. She needed to be judged! She needed _her_ to judge her! Just like all the other inmates were judged, assessed and scored.

Franky grabbed a tank top from the bed, which she apparently forgot to clean up. She buried her face in it and closed her eyes. Smelling the scent which she had so stupidly come to take for granted, she pictured herself at the setting where she had wanted to be the most. With Gidge. In her kitchen. In her bedroom. Lying against her. The worst part was that in here, she needed to make people believe the exact opposite. And Gidge was obviously not going to make it easy on her. She forgave out of love. She is planning to keep forgiving out of love. What did the determined psychologist need for that love to be lost? Franky was going to need to shake Gidge's faith in her.

She kept sniffing the tank top and her mind instantly flashed back to a better time. Her own laughter resounded in her head as she saw her girlfriend kiss her way up from her abdomen to her bellybutton before peeling the tank top off of her. _The first one of us to get completely naked is a rotten egg!_ Franky had giggled in the hopes of slowing the blonde down; so that she could surprise her love by flipping her on her back and torture her really slow until she would beg the brunette to take things further. That is to say, if she was still coherent by then.

 _Then I better check really quickly how rotten you are, baby…_ And she did check. With her tongue. Right after yanking Franky's clothes down her lower body in one swift move. The beauty with the green eyes had been too astonished to even remember her own planned moves.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Franky whispered into the cloth. Apparently, things were going to need to get much worse before they could ever begin to get better.

-x-

The house was too fucking silent, Bridget decided as she sat curled up in the corner of the sofa. Her tea had gone cold at least half an hour ago, but she couldn't be bothered to get up to make herself another cup. Normally Franky would be sitting in the other corner, her feet in Bridget's lap. She would be reading, or watching TV, or maybe she would be bored, and tapping her fingers on the coffee table in the way that drives Bridget crazy. She would give anything to hear that rhythmic tapping right now. She considered turning on the radio, but it reminded her too much of dancing with Franky. She could turn on the television, but there was no fun in watching a movie without cuddling up to the brunette. She mocked herself. She had lived by herself for years and years before Franky. In fact, in all of her relationships she had never been the one to suggest moving in together. She appreciated having her own personal space, and being able to seek her refuge in a sanctuary that was completely her own, without the presence of her significant other. But...with Franky, she wanted to be near the woman all she could. She wanted to be able to feel her soft skin against her own, to smell her exquisite, floral deodorant - Franky didn't wear perfume; she said she didn't see the benefit, though she did seem to appreciate Bridget's subtle daily application of her favorite fragrance. She wanted to hear Franky's warm laughter vibrate through the house and her soul.

A knock at the door brought her out of her thoughts. Strange - she was not expecting anyone. She got up and walked towards the front entrance. She could identify the outline of a small person through the security glass. Leaving the chain on, she opened the door a small bit. Franky might think she was reckless, taking risks by being at Wentworth by herself so much without a guard escorting her, but she was not stupid either. Through the small chink she could see a familiar nervous gaze looking at her. She smiled, and took the chain lock off before fully opening the door.

"Hi Vera." Vera silently looked her up and down, and Bridget winced internally. Vera probably had not expected to encounter her looking like this - wearing pajama pants, no bra, and one of Franky's sweaters. She hadn't a trace of makeup on her face and she had forgone doing her hair after her shower, instead opting to having it air-dry while she had tried to force her dinner down her throat. "Would you like to come in?" she offered the skittish woman.

"Oh, uh, yes, please. I hope I'm not disturbing anything," Vera replied, running a hand through her hair.

"Not at all, please." Bridget stepped aside to let her in, and relocked the door. She led the woman to the living area.

"Can I offer you anything to drink?" Bridget asked. Vera rummaged around in her bag until she produced a bottle of merlot. Smiling gently, she offered the wine to Bridget: "I brought wine." Bridget smiled back at her; though she had a feeling it did not reach her eyes.

"Wine it is then."

Minutes later, the two women were seated on the sofa, glasses of wine in hand.

"Bridget," Vera began, hesitating slightly. "Are you okay? Really?" Bridget sighed and glanced at the ceiling. If only she had a definite answer to that question.

"Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not," she replied truthfully. There were moments during the day when she thought she was fine, but then someone would mention Franky or she would see the brunette in the hallways or something would remind her of her, and she would feel shaken to the core again. Tears were threatening to fall anew right now. Keep it together, damn it! Vera leant towards her and timidly laid a hand on Bridget's knee.

"I want to be here for you, Bridget. I'm not very good at this, but I consider you a valuable asset to Wentworth, and, more importantly, a, uh, friend. I want you to be okay. And I want you and Franky to be okay." At the mention of the younger woman, Bridget's dam broke and she could not stop the weeping that initiated in her heart and racked her body. Vera took her glass from her and set them both on the coffee table before scooting over to Bridget and stiffly encircling her slim, trembling form in a hug. The blonde psychologist cried even more agonizingly at the gesture - she knew how difficult physical social interactions were for Vera.

"Thank you," she wept into the governor's shoulder. She felt Vera gently rub circles between her shoulder blades. She had not realized how badly she needed a hug until just now. It was logical, really. Franky and she always found a moment in their busy days to take the time to embrace each other, even if it was just for a second. She found it difficult to go to sleep without it. When Bridget would come home after a particularly stressful day, Franky would be there at the door, and without saying a word she would gather Bridget in her arms and let her relax in the hug, feeling protected by Franky's strong arms and firm physique. She missed it. God, how she missed it.

Gradually she felt the deep, abyssal anguish recede, and it was replaced by a more subconscious misery. Bridget straightened her back and cleared her throat. Vera looked at her with a mixture of concern and insecurity in her gaze.

"Really, Vera, thank you. For everything," the blonde whispered. She felt the wetness on her cheeks. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back." Vera nodded silently as Bridget stood up and sought her retreat in the bathroom. Looking into the mirror she was nearly startled by her own reflection. She looked hollow-eyed; her skin was blotchy; her eyes were red and streaks of drying tears were visible on her face. She looked nothing like her normal, positive, grounded self. Bridget turned on the tap and rinsed her face with the icy cold water. Hopefully that would take care of some of the blotchiness. Taking a few deep breaths, her gaze landed on Franky's hair tie lying on the counter. Her entire house was filled with items belonging to Franky - items smelling like Franky. The green shirt with neon letters spelling out 'counting stars' she loved to sleep in was still stuffed under her pillow, along with the black singlet she'd stolen from Bridget. A bunch of law books were strewn over the desk in her study. Yesterday, she'd encountered a bunch of candy wrappers on the side table on Franky's side of the couch, and she almost had to cry when she gathered them up and threw them in the trash. It felt like she was throwing out the evidence of Franky ever having lived in the house with her. The olive green sweater she was wearing was a bad choice with her complexion, but it gave her the feeling of having Franky nearby, by being surrounded by her scent. She all but laughed at herself for being so fucking sentimental. It was just a sweater...but it meant so much to her. Bridget sighed and went back into the living room, bracing herself for having to face Vera after her breakdown. Tears nearly fell once more in relief when she found Vera casually watching the evening news report, holding out her glass of wine for her. She gratefully accepted it and sat down next to the somewhat stiff governor. Together they regarded the television, occasionally quietly commenting on the headlines.

"Ferguson has been spreading rumors about you and Franky," Vera suddenly stated during the weather forecast. Bridget hummed in acknowledgement of her announcement.

"Hm, yes, to the Ombudsman, but we took care of that. Right?" She raised an eyebrow at Vera.

"To Jake." Bridget set her glass down. "And he's come to me, asking about it." Fuck. Bridget had hoped he had not heard Ferguson's comment about her secret when he had come to escort her back to her unit. Sighing, she explained: "Joan told me my 'secret' was safe with you as he entered my office." She raised her fingers in quotation marks. Vera shook her head. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him I wasn't at liberty to say anything."

"Did he buy it?" Bridget asked. Vera sighed, and her expression turned sad. Softly, she replied: "He got angry with me, and walked away."

"Oh Vera," the blonde consoled her, "I'm so sorry." Vera just shrugged.

"I think he's dropped it, but I don't know for how long." Bridget pressed her lips together. "He accused me of not trusting him," Vera continued. Internally, Bridget cursed the slimy guard. He knew exactly how to push Vera's buttons, it seemed, targeting her insecurities with marksman precision.

"I'm sure he'll turn around," she reassured the petite brunette. Vera looked at her with her big green eyes. Bridget smiled. "You really like him, don't you?" The other woman blushed, and nodded. Her grip on the stem of her wine glass tightened as she admitted: "Men aren't interested in me all that often. This is all new to me, and I...I feel a little lost." She gazed at the floor. "I don't know what's normal."

"It's not about what's normal, Vera. It's about what you feel comfortable with. You're the one who gets to decide what you want to share and do, and what you don't," Bridget offered.

"I've never experienced any of this before. Not really anyway. So I don't…" Vera sighed deeply. "I don't know what I want." She spun the wine glass between her fingertips, and squirmed slightly in her seat. Bridget noted she looked tiny on the couch – nothing like Franky. Franky could fill up the entire couch and then some with her lanky frame. Often she would have to coax her into shifting so she could fit on there as well.

"There's only one way to find out what you want, and that's to try it," Bridget stated. "Just…" She let her voice trail off. She did not want to ruin Vera's fun.

"Just what?" the other woman inquired. The blonde psychologist sighed.

"Just be careful, okay?"

-x-

 **Authors' Notes:**

Just a few notes at the end from us:  
1.) Yes, we are aware that the Kaz Vinnie Holt was screwing around with was not Kaz Proctor, but in this story it is.  
2.) Bridget asks Franky 'That first time, do you still remember what you said?' in the library. We have just uploaded a one-shot that ties in with this story, which goes into that particular memory. It's titled 'First Love'.  
3.) Though this started off as being tied-in with the canon events, we may verge away from what's currently happening on the show. We've got this fic planned out, whether the Wentworth writers agree with us or not! ;)

Please let us know what you thought of this chapter! We love hearing from you and interacting with you!


End file.
